


The Golden Bird: Part I

by pierrot_dreams



Series: The Golden Bird [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dehumanization, Eating Disorders, Forced Prostitution, Gang Rape, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Novel, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rape, Romance, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Suicide Attempt, Torture, True Love, Underage Prostitution, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 06:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 108,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20773838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pierrot_dreams/pseuds/pierrot_dreams
Summary: During the reign of a mad king, two old friends meet again one night in an upscale brothel. One is a pleasure-slave; the other, reluctant heir to the King's adviser. They find themselves trapped in a dangerous game of power and politics that will test their allegiances to both the coming revolution and to each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a radical revision of a work originally posted under the same name a number of years ago. If you read the first draft, welcome and thank you from the bottom of my blackened heart for your incredible loyalty and patience. Most of this material has been entirely rewritten, and substantial changes have been made to the world, plot, and characters. I'm immensely grateful for all feedback (but, uh...please don't tell me that you liked the old version better, my aforementioned blackened heart can't take it).
> 
> If you're a new reader, welcome as well! Please heed the tags. I'll post additional warnings chapter by chapter, but with a story like this, not everything can be warned for. There will be graphic depictions of sexual abuse throughout Part I and Part II. 
> 
> That said, this story will have a happy ending. Pinky swear.

_Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?_

Alexander Pope, “Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot”

“Have you had the Golden Bird?”

Robert stirred from vague, drifting half-dreams at the voice which, though familiar, he could not place. There was a warm weight on his chest. Further examination proved it to be a young man who murmured in contentment as a hand—Robert’s own, he realized detachedly—stroked his hair. Robert realized with the same sense of detachment that he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten here.

Interesting.

With considerable effort, Robert wound back his memory.

He had stumbled into Paradiso unmasked and wine-drunk on the heels of Bacchanal, following a youth in a gilded cat mask who was quickly lost among the revelers. A gloved hand snatched at his sleeve. The man attached emerged from the mob, grinning under a domino. Did Robert know him? He’d followed him anyway, stumbling through glittering throngs of merrymakers, fuzzyheaded with booze and lust in equal measure.

The man had pulled him into the doorway of some disreputable establishment and kissed him, his mouth tasting like whiskey Robert hadn’t drunk and cigars he hadn’t smoked. There was something illicitly intimate about these private details communicated through a stranger’s kiss in a stranger’s doorway, and too soon Robert was on his knees, fumbling to unlace the man’s breeches.

There was an interruption then—a swarm of faces familiar even under their half-masks, expressions jeering and congratulatory. Adrian’s merry band of idiots. But where was their leader?

_And you swore you wouldn’t miss me, Fox_, said the man in the domino, pushing up his mask.

Because it was Adrian, of course, Adrian all along, and Robert didn’t know whether to curse the gods or bless them.

They rode the surging crowd to some squalid tavern or another (Robert remembered only Adrian’s hand in his) where there was wine, and then more of it, until the room throbbed with light and noise and Robert couldn't have said where his lips ended and Adrian’s began.

The boy in the cat mask appeared in Robert’s lap as though summoned from ether. Adrian purred lewd suggestions in Robert’s ear as his hand worked under the boy’s tunic.

_We can share him, Fox. Just like old times._

One of Adrian’s friends produced a snuffbox from his cloak, not full of snuff but a silvery powder that Adrian, laughing, tipped into their drinks. It left a metallic sting in Robert’s mouth, quickly soothed by the cat-boy’s tongue.

And then the world had melted into warm confusion. His eyes became carnival mirrors, refractive and distorted. Images had to swim through a sea of warped glass to meet his brain. Robert remembered Adrian holding his eye as the cat-boy writhed in his lap. The barkeep, face twisted with mingled anger and apprehension, suggesting that perhaps their lordships would be moving along now that they had broken all the chairs. Adrian, eyes like dark stars behind his domino. The fever-breath of Paradiso on his face as they exited the pillaged tavern, air hot with booze and sex and something burning. Adrian, dragging him into an alley to kiss. Hailing a shabby hansom, coins clinking into the cabby’s hand. Adrian, moaning as Robert stroked his cock. A palace rearing up out of the spangled crowd. And Adrian, and Adrian, and Adrian.

More powder, then, and after that—nothing.

“The Golden Bird?” Robert repeated groggily.

“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him. Tell me, Robert, have you even ventured from your study since I left you?”

Robert couldn’t even begin to formulate a fitting response to that. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, wincing as his head throbbed in protest. The boy across his lap made a noise of displeasure. His cat mask had disappeared somewhere between the tavern and the cab. Robert entertained the unkind thought that he’d been prettier with it on.

It took a moment for Robert’s eyes to adjust to the candlelight. A dancehall emerged from the gloom: posh, tasteless, all gold and swag and glittery candelabras. The sort of place his mother might’ve headlined in her heyday. Of course, Fanny had entertained clients of a very different order than the men who lounged in these velvet seats. Robert knew exactly the sort of show that Adrian would have brought them to, and there would be no courtesans on offer. No female ones, anyway.

“This is the Harlequin, isn’t it?” said Robert resignedly, already knowing the answer.

Adrian was reclining beside him, deftly rolling a cigarette. And gods, how had Robert forgotten his hands? His wicked, lovely hands.

“Very good, darling. You’re all caught up.”

Robert gritted his teeth and tried, with a nearly inhuman exercise of will, not to strangle his lover. _Ex-lover, _he reminded himself—and oh, wasn’t Adrian clever to have made him forget, even for a moment?

“If I’m not very much mistaken, it was me who did the leaving,” said Robert, trying (failing) to keep his voice steady. “In fact, I seem to recall finding you in my bed with—who was it? The porter?”

“Oh, who remembers?” Adrian lit his cigarette, the flame a scrap of brightness in the dim hall. “You can’t live in the past, Robert. It’s a vanished country.”

It had been the porter. Robert watched it all unfold again in his mind’s eye, on an endless punishing loop.

“I should go,” he said, shoving himself to his feet.

The boy rolled off his lap, cursed, resettled himself on the seat, and fell back to sleep, all without opening his eyes.

Adrian grabbed Robert’s wrist.

“Don’t you _dare_,” he hissed. “Do you have any idea what I did to get these tickets?”

“Fucked the ticket-seller?”

“Don’t be crude, Robert.”

“That’s rich, coming from the man I caught with his mouth on the porter’s—”

“All right, all right.” Adrian pouted. “This was supposed to be my apology, but you seemed to be determined to ruin it.”

“I hate brothels. You know that.”

“Prudery doesn’t suit you, darling.”

Robert folded his hand over the fingers gripping his wrist. _You have no idea how easily I could break you_, he thought.

Aloud he said, “I don’t fuck slaves.”

It wasn’t until Adrian slid a hand up his thigh that Robert realized his breeches were still undone. Astonishing how the proximity of Adrian’s mouth could still center his attention there. Even knowing where that mouth had been.

“You haven’t seen this slave,” said Adrian, coaxing. “I’ve heard he’s the most beautiful boy in all of Paradiso. Everyone at Highcourt has had him. They say that when he dances, the gods themselves get hard.”

He pulled Robert closer, lips brushing his ear.

“Francis told me that he and Ambrose fucked the boy two at once. Slid their cocks in side by side. He took it all and licked them clean after.”

Robert kept his face indifferent, but couldn’t stop his cock from stirring. _Traitor_.

A sly smile curved Adrian’s mouth. “Ah. Not such a prude after all, then.”

Robert kissed him—rough, needful, pinning him to the seat and shoving a knee between his thighs. Adrian growled into his mouth. Smoke and silver powder. Robert caught a fistful of black hair and _pulled_, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat.

“The Dean put me on probation, you realize?”

“That’s what happens when you try to kill a servant.” Even breathless, Adrian was mocking. “You’re a student of law, Robert. ‘Don’t assault the porter’ is hardly an obscure statute.”

“_Assault_ is a strong word.”

“You broke the poor man’s nose.”

“He fucked you in my bed.”

Adrian grinned lazily, rubbing his crotch against Robert’s knee.

“I don’t flatter myself to think that was the reason, darling. You’ve caught me _in flagrante_ before.”

That was true. He made a game of it, letting Robert find him with other men. Usually Robert joined in. But this time…

Robert couldn’t have said what it was, something in the man’s face or his smell or the shape of his back, but when he opened that door and saw what was being done to Adrian, it was like he was fifteen again, only he could _stop it_ this time. He was strong enough, he was Lord Argent’s ward. He could protect the boy on the bed.

Except the boy was Adrian, and he was in the bed very much of his own volition. Unfortunately, Robert only realized that after he’d already knocked the porter unconscious.

“Maybe I thought he’d be handsomer with certain features rearranged,” he said, kneeling between Adrian’s legs. “And, for the record, I did not miss you.”

Adrian smiled like a ruined angel. “You’re a liar, Fox.”

A note sounded from the stage. The curtain rose on a temple setting, improbably forested. Trees bloomed silk flowers against a backdrop of painted stars. Each gilded niche held a pleasure slave, naked but for nymph masks and heavy whores’ jewelry.

Robert's mouth went dry. When Adrian tugged him down beside him, Robert offered no resistance.

He’d seen satyr plays at gentleman’s clubs, not with slaves but free men who wanted to play at submission. He and Adrian had even played the roles sometimes in bed, Adrian the swooning Ganymene and Robert the rapacious satyr. If Robert had given the matter any thought, he would’ve said that the Harlequin’s famous satyr play was more or less the same as satyr plays anywhere else.

He would have been wrong.

When the satyr emerged from the trees, Robert had to stifle a gasp. He wore a black horsehair wig with a set of ram’s horns coiling over his ears. Red greasepaint was smeared across his face in a bloody handprint. He was huge, of course, the sort of strapping monstrosity always chosen for the role, but it wasn’t his size that made Robert reach for the knife he no longer carried.

_Old habits_, he reminded himself.

Still, watching the satyr saunter onstage, Robert wouldn’t have minded a bit of steel in his boot. There was barely-restrained violence in the lines of his shoulders, the promise of pain in the way he held his hands. Robert had grown up around men like that. Before Lord Argent took him in, he’d been well on his way to becoming one himself.

“Not your type, I see,” said Adrian, indicating Robert’s wilting erection.

But he was Adrian’s. The placket of his breeches was tight over his straining cock. When Robert touched him, his hips snapped forward, eyelids fluttering.

_So eager, Hound. _Adrian could spin the most convincing lies, but his body always gave him away.

Onstage, the satyr was unlacing himself. His cock tumbled out, so comically oversized that Robert thought for a moment that it had to be a dildo. But not even the most lifelike dildo could swell and thicken, curving up like a strung bow.

Adrian moaned. His cock throbbed in Robert’s hand.

“Are you hard for me or for him?” Robert asked.

“Always for you, darling.” Adrian’s lips brushed his ear. “Always for you.”

The satyr stroked himself, fingers playing around the head of his cock. He rolled his balls in his palm and leered at the audience. When the music quickened, he began to dance a mocking jig, twitching his hips so the goats’-tail plug in his ass swung from side to side.

Then the satyr pretended to catch sight of the nymphs. He leapt back in mock surprise; then he crept forward, throwing the audience a broad wink. Laughter rippled through the hall. The satyr strutted up and down, inspecting each of the nymphs with the air of a general reviewing his troops. Then he sprang forward and grabbed one by the waist, pulling him from his niche. The boy made token resistance before pretending to swoon away from fear. The satyr threw him to the ground and began to hump his motionless body.

The violence of it stirred something unpleasant in Robert’s memory. He could feel it rising to the surface of his mind.

_Whiskey, _he thought. _Emergency_.

Thank gods his flask was still in his cloak. He drank deeply, wincing as the unexpected sting of silver lashed his tongue.

_Adrian_. Clever bastard.

On stage, the satyr shoved the nymph back into his niche and pulled down another. This one was younger, fairer. His hair was more brown than golden, of course, but still—still, Robert could feel the breath of the dead on his neck.

To distract himself, he pulled Adrian into his lap. From this angle, he could reach down his drawers, under the iron heat of his cock, to circle his tight hole.

“Lube?” he murmured.

Adrian let his head fall back onto Robert’s shoulder, face languid with pleasure. “My cloak.”

It was no easier to work a finger into Adrian than it had been when they were lovers. He always resisted at first, body bearing down instinctively against the intrusion. Robert was patient. When his knuckle settled against Adrian’s rim, he felt a rush of triumph.

_Always for you, darling_. The only time Robert believed Adrian was when he was inside of him.

The act was repeated as the satyr went down the line, each boy pretending to struggle before submitting. Robert fingered Adrian, enjoying the way he writhed and whimpered and opened for him. The wine was pleasant, warming. The silver seemed to kiss his spine.

Robert pushed deeper. “Do you like that?”

_Do you like that?_ A boy’s voice, echoing, as if from a great distance.

Adrian arched in his lap. “More,” he gasped.

Wine and silver were closing over Robert’s head. This dancehall became another, older, shabbier. A woman kicked up her legs, petticoats churning. Onstage, a nymph cried out in pain. How old was he? The woman’s face, painted like a doll’s. _You look just like your father, Robbie love._ Lord Argent, unfolding his probation notice with an expression of grim unsurprise. _I’ll let our house fall to the dogs before I see you turn out like your father, Robert_. A boy’s face, perfect as a doll’s. He whispered, _Promise you won’t forget me?_

“No!” Robert lurched to his feet. “Not you. Not you.”

He staggered towards the dancing phantom, hands closing on air.

_Promise? _Luca’s ghost whispered.

“Robert?”

Robert opened his eyes. He was still sitting in the brothel. His hand was tacky with semen.

_Not mine_, he thought stupidly.

Adrian had been half-flung from his lap. He was staring at Robert with an expression not unlike fear. From the stage came the steady wet slap of the satyr’s balls.

“Don’t ever spike my flask again,” said Robert hoarsely.

Suddenly, the stage lights dimmed. As one, the nymphs fled the stage. The satyr leaped up and hid behind a tree.

A boy appeared at the edge of the forest. Golden hair fell in loose silky waves past his waist. Robert felt a twist of unease. A barbarian? No, surely not. It must be dyed.

Aside from his slave collar, the boy wore nothing but a half-mask and a girdle of bells that chimed softly as he moved.

“The Golden Bird,” Adrian murmured, slipping his hand between the buttons of Robert’s waistcoat. “Our Ganymene for the night. Do you approve?”

Robert couldn’t answer. He seemed to have utterly lost the power to speak.

Ganymene shifted his hips. The bells sounded a clear, high note.

The music rose and he began to dance. Undulating, weightless. _Like a ghost_, Robert thought. He was too lovely to be real.

But no, this boy was alive—vividly alive, hands weaving patterns in the air as he chimed the bells with every twisting, teasing flex of his hips. Robert imagined that if he touched him, the boy’s body would burn like the heart of flame.

Robert was so absorbed that he’d barely noticed his cock thicken. When Adrian touched him, his flinch was as much surprise as arousal.

“What would you like to do to him?” Adrian’s breath was hot in his ear. “Have him suck me while you fuck him from behind? You could use his mouth after, I know how much you love to bury your huge cock down a boy’s—”

“Don’t,” said Robert roughly.

Adrian made an offended noise and snatched his hand away. Robert didn’t care. His world had narrowed to the boy on the stage.

But he wasn’t the only one watching. The satyr was still hidden behind a tree, pumping his monstrous cock. Now he threw the audience a knowing grin and stepped onto the stage.

Ganymene turned to see the satyr.

Robert could hardly follow the chase that ensued. It was supposed to be erotic, this scene, the monster bearing down on the fleeing prince. An allegory for the pursuit of a lover. Robert had only ever found it disturbing. There was an edge of desperation in Ganymene’s attempts to evade the satyr, as if he really did want to escape.

But the satyr moved deftly, lazily, boxing him in. A cat toying with a mouse. He knew there was nowhere for the boy to run.

_It’s just a play, _Robert reminded himself. The boy was a professional. What had Adrian said about him taking two men at once? He must be good at this. Used to it.

Still, Robert felt a pang when the satyr caught Ganymene by the hair. His head snapped back so hard Robert thought for a moment his neck had been broken. The satyr dragged him to the altar in the center of the stage and threw him down on it.

Ganymene kicked out weakly. Laughing, the satyr caught his ankle and dragged him closer. He pried the boy’s legs apart, shoving his knee up to his chest so the audience could see his tight little hole. There was a ripple of interest, murmurs of appreciation. Robert could hear men working their hands down their breeches.

Without preamble, the satyr shoved two fingers into Ganymene. Robert sucked a breath through his teeth. The boy must’ve been stretched beforehand, but the satyr stabbed in and out with such gleeful violence that it looked like he was _trying _to tear him. He twisted his fingers savagely, then added a third.

He paused, saying something—Robert saw his lips move—and then pushed forward again, carefully this time, with a skilled flex of his wrist. Ganymene gasped and arched his back, golden hair spilling over the altar.

Fields of hell_._ Even writhing in a sick parody of pleasure, he was beautiful. Robert felt drunk with desire as much as with wine. He fumbled in his waistcoat for a cigarette. Adrian proffered a lighter—his own, Robert realized belatedly, seeing the Argent crest on its side. Adrian must’ve taken it while Robert was passed out.

_Very clever, Hound_.

Robert nearly dropped the cigarette when the satyr grabbed a fistful of Ganymene’s hair and slammed his head into the altar.

_Just a play_, Robert reminded himself. But Ganymene’s cry of pain sounded far too real.

In a practiced motion, the satyr flipped the boy onto his knees and spread him open. He threw the audience a triumphant leer as he drove forward, burying his cock inside.

Nothing in the satyr’s manner had given Robert any reason to think him gentle. Still, he hadn’t anticipated the sheer brutality with which the man ravaged Ganymene. He used his cock like a battering ram, opening the boy up with long, rough strokes before starting to pummel him in earnest. Ganymene’s thin limbs trembled under the assault, but he rode the satyr’s brutal pace, pushing back as he rammed in and grinding down on every thrust.

The satyr drove himself in to the hilt. Then he leaned down and sank his teeth into the nape of Ganymene’s neck. The boy’s head came up, mouth a soundless _O_ of pain. The satyr fucked him like that, nails raking bloody furrows down his perfect thighs.

Robert felt sick. His cock throbbed. He wanted obscene, unnamable things. Instead he lit another cigarette from the dog-end of the last.

Adrian shifted beside him, annoyance palpable. The tickets really must have been expensive. Robert was vaguely aware that he was ruining whatever elaborate plans Adrian had laid for the night.

He wondered how long Ganymene’s body would bear the mark of the satyr’s hands.

“My lord?”

Robert looked up to see a slave standing at his elbow. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. He had a dark, mobile face that would have been striking if it weren’t for the badly-disguised expression of hatred.

“My lord is to play Melchior,” said the slave sullenly. “If it pleases him.”

Robert looked at Adrian, who wasn’t even trying to hide his delight.

“I take it this is your doing?” Robert said, trying to keep his voice level.

“Isn’t it a splendid apology?” Adrian was practically bouncing in his seat. “Playing Melchior at the Harlequin—and on Bacchanal, no less! It’s the most sought-after ticket in Lyonesse. Francis nearly throttled me when he found out I was the one—” He stopped, seeing Robert’s expression. “Robert, I called in five favors and spent a month’s allowance on this, and you’re looking at me like I’ve just killed your dog.”

Robert was holding his head and digging his thumbs into temples.

“Adrian, I need you to listen to me very carefully. I don’t go to brothels. I don’t pay for whores. And I do not—not ever—fuck slaves.”

Adrian rolled his eyes. “Oh, spare me. Since when are you are a martyr to principle?”

_Since you drugged my flask and I saw the ghost of the only boy I’ve ever loved. _

“Since Lord Argent threatened to pull me from University if I keep seeing you.”

It was true, at least, even if it wasn’t the reason.

“I’m flattered that your keeper thinks I’m such a threat, darling, but I doubt that Lord Argent, Grand Chancellor of the Royal Council, has eyes and ears in a Paradiso brothel.”

“Don’t underestimate him.”

The slave had been following their exchange, eyes flicking back and forth. Now he spoke.

“Ticket’s bought and paid for. No refunds.” Then, after a defiant pause: “My lords.”

Robert was about to make some sarcastic remark when he heard it: a small, bitten-off cry, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. The satyr was crouched over Ganymene, using his full weight to piston in and out of him. The slap of his balls sounded like a whip against the boy’s skin. Ganymene was holding himself open, digging white-knuckled fingers into his own flesh. He was biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

The satyr thrust in to the hilt, burying himself in Ganymene’s ass. He bent down, almost tenderly, and caught a stray tear on his thumb. When he pressed the thumb to Ganymene’s mouth, the boy started sucking mindlessly, eagerly, fellating the digit as though he was too far gone to realize it wasn’t his rapist’s cock.

“Come, Robert. You know how the story goes.” Adrian pressed against him, sinuous, insistent. “It’s Melchior who rescues Ganymene. He arrives at the shrine with his sword blazing and vanquishes the satyr. Don’t you want to play the hero?”

Robert felt blunt pressure digging into his palms. He looked down to see that his hands had curled themselves into fists. His last real fight had been months ago, bare knuckles in makeshift ring by the wharf. Lord Argent found out, of course—he always found out—and Robert had the pleasure of watching his usually implacable face turn purple. _I didn’t have your nose fixed for you to break it again, you ungrateful boy._

As if reading his mind, Adrian said, “Just imagine what your keeper would say.”

“He’s not my _keeper_,” Robert spat.

“Of course not, darling.” Adrian’s hand was light on his thigh, stroking upwards with just enough pressure to draw Robert’s attention to his half-hard cock. “And you’re right, of course—I was wrong to bring you here. I only wanted to show you how very sorry I am. How much I want you back.”

He traced Robert’s cock through his breeches. Scald the land, it felt good. Robert hated how good it felt.

“What do you want?” he asked, trying to sound bored and failing utterly.

“I want to watch you fuck him. I want to watch _this—_” Adrian squeezed, just hard enough to make Robert’s eyes roll back in his skull—“thrusting in and out of that pretty whore. I want you to fuck him and imagine my ass around your cock.”

Robert was having trouble remembering how to breathe. He could appreciate, even through the fog of desire, that Adrian was a damned expert at pulling his strings.

“I—ah—I suppose that can be arranged.”

“Good.” Adrian laid a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Now go pleasure the little slut senseless.”

The sullen whore led Robert backstage to a dressing room. A eunuch attendant was waiting there with a goblet of wine and Melchior’s silver mask. Robert knocked back the wine as the eunuch arranged a cape of iron-colored silk over his shoulders. The now-familiar taste of metal stung in his throat.

“Did Adrian give you this?” Robert rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Lord Courtney, I mean. The man who bought the ticket.”

The eunuch slid his gaze away, sphinxlike.

“Refill my lord’s glass,” he ordered the sullen whore.

Robert thought to refuse—but really, what was the point? If he was going to partake in tonight’s festivities, he might as well commit. He recalled Adrian’s dig about how he hadn’t left his study since their parting. Loathe as Robert was to admit it, he wasn’t wrong.

The second dram of wine went down easier. When the eunuch unlaced him, he was still half-hard. Still, Robert couldn’t help flinching as the man curled a hand around his cock. What was it he’d said about not fucking slaves? Adrian had a singular talent for turning him into a liar.

“May your slave use its mouth to please you, my lord?” asked the eunuch politely. “Or perhaps the boy—”

“_No_.” Robert squeezed his eyes shut. “Just—like this. This is fine.”

It was better than fine. The eunuch handled Robert like a professional, deftly working him back to hardness. The drugged wine was stronger than his inhibitions, and it wasn’t long before he was full and throbbing in the eunuch’s palm.

“Truly, my lord has been blessed by the gods,” murmured the eunuch.

“My lord needs another drink,” said Robert.

His voice sounded pleasantly faraway. Almost like it belonged to someone else.

The eunuch motioned to the boy, who filled Robert’s goblet to the brim. And after that—candelight throwing shadows on the ceiling, the eunuch’s clever fingers on his balls, a wooden sword in his hand—and the mask, the cold silver mask settling over his face.

Robert tried to picture Adrian, but he saw only Ganymene. His lithe, pliant body. That bright hair, rayed out around a face that looked up at Robert with perfect trust.

_I love you forever..._

Robert came back to himself on the edge of the stage. He was upright only by his grip on the eunuch’s shoulder.

Onstage, the satyr was fucking Ganymene’s mouth. He treated this hole no differently than the other, battering it from the worst angles. The delicate line of Ganymene’s throat was distorted grotesquely. It must’ve felt like swallowing a cudgel over and over.

Still, the boy forced his head down to meet the satyr’s thrusts. His nose and eyes were streaming, every part of him was trembling, there was blood on his face and thighs, but still, he strained his tongue to lap at the satyr’s balls.

Robert felt the urgent need to tear the satyr off of Ganymene. He wanted to kiss the boy’s split lips, his fluttering throat, the soft, bruised place between his legs. He wanted to lay him down and take him gently, stroking that sweet spot inside of him until he spilled his pleasure into Robert’s hand. He wanted—_gods_, he wanted everything.

“Your cue, my lord,” said the eunuch.

Robert took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage.

After the darkness of the hall and the dressing room, the lights were blinding. Robert could make out the dark shape of the altar, the bodies moving on it. A hulking shadow detached itself and came towards him. The satyr.

Robert realized belatedly that the wooden sword was in the wrong hand—his right, not his left. It was a useless weapon anyway, the sort of pasteboard toy that rich children played with.

But Robert had grown up in Docktown. He’d been born with his hands already in fists. When the satyr came within swinging distance, he acted on instinct. His knuckles connected before he even had time to think.

The satyr hit the floorboards with a noise like lightning splintering a mast. Robert felt the impact in his teeth. His eyes were burning; he blinked to clear them.

The blurry outline on the floor resolved itself into a body, somehow even vaster up close. A cursory check confirmed that the satyr was out cold.

Robert registered, distantly, that his hand hurt.

Ganymene was kneeling on the altar, shaking so hard that his bells chattered like teeth. Seeing Robert, he went absolutely still. Robert could smell the sex on him, the sweat. So delicate, this boy, with his fawnlike limbs and his doelike face. So intoxicatingly lovely. Robert felt—fuck, he felt _reverent_, as though the little whore were a true god. It seemed like sacrilege to deface him.

Robert was tired. He was drunk. He was hard. He wanted to fuck Ganymene more than he could remember ever wanting to fuck anyone.

The boy held out his hand, palm up. An invitation.

Robert dropped his sword and stumbled to the altar. Ganymene moved more quickly than he would’ve thought possible, rolling onto his knees and spreading his legs in a smooth, practiced motion. If it wasn’t for the blood, the bruises, Robert never would’ve guessed he was in pain.

Arousal was making it difficult for Robert think. The pose the boy assumed—equally enticing and surrendering, all his vulnerable parts exposed—went to his head like silver.

Ganymene’s ass was round and firm and perfect. His anus was red and open. His waist was so narrow that Robert could wrap his hands around it. He could break the boy in half.

That thought pierced the haze of lust and silver. Robert didn’t want to break him.

Gently, carefully, he turned the boy over onto his back. _So light_, Robert thought. As frail and yielding as a doll.

The boy opened his legs again immediately, pulling his knees to his chest in a gesture that would’ve seemed eager if he wasn’t trembling. The urge to bury himself inside that hot little opening was so strong that Robert felt light-headed. He fell forward over the altar, catching himself gracelessly on his elbows. The ends of his red hair brushed Ganymene’s chest, his quivering throat.

Gently, Robert kissed the hollow between his collarbones. The boy’s pulse was like a wingbeat under his teeth.

Robert pushed himself up onto his hands. Ganymene was spread under him, a breathing idol. In that moment Robert would have worshipped him to damnation and back.

“You’re beautiful,” he said hoarsely.

Long lashes rose and fell over the boy’s shadowed eyes. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Then, slowly, carefully, he raised a hand to Robert’s cheek. The touch was light as breath.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” said Robert. And he did.

Oh.

_Oh._

The boy’s mouth—soft, welcoming, sweeter than wine.

And familiar. Like coming home.

Cold shock cut through Robert. He jerked back, lips burning with the kiss. Ganymene gazed at him with blue-violet eyes. The eyes of the dead.

No_. No._ It couldn’t be.

Without thinking, Robert pulled away Ganymene’s mask. A ghost looked up at him.

The silver-laced wine roared in Robert’s head. Past and present and Luca and Ganymene became a delirious one. Robert might have shouted, he didn’t know. His ears were roaring. He staggered away from the altar.

The ghost reached out a hand, a pale dead hand. He was saying something, lips forming vowels and consonants that Robert had utterly lost the meaning of somewhere between confusion and sheer bloody-minded terror.

_Promise you won’t forget me?_

As if Robert could. He'd been Robbie then, barely thirteen when he first snuck up the dumbwaiter into the room where Lord Crawley kept his pleasure slave. Luca was only eleven, but his eyes were years older. Robbie had never seen anything so beautiful.

Falling in love was the easiest thing they’d ever done. They just didn’t reckon on everything that came after.

But Luca was dead. He was dead and Robbie had killed him, and so it was completely impossible that he was here, looking at Robert in wide-eyed confusion as though it had simply slipped his mind that he wasn’t alive anymore.

Robert fled. He wasn’t proud of it, hating his cowardice even as he stumbled through the brothel doors, tearing off the mask and silver drapery. Outside, Bacchanal was a reeling nightmare of noise and color. Masked figures loomed up on all sides, somehow both absurd and threatening.

Robert staggered down the teeming streets, drowning in memory. It was almost a relief to be tripped by a beggar who gave Robert the finger before spinning off into the crowd.

He landed on his knees beside a gutter. It seemed fitting that he should vomit, so he did, spilling drugged wine into the grate until there was nothing left in him but regret.

His last thought before he passed out was that he had at last gone utterly, irretrievably mad.


	2. Chapter 2

Every boy-brothel in Paradiso had an altar for the whore god. It would’ve been sacrilege not to. At the last place that owned Luca, the altar had been a crude carving propped up on a crate greasy with penny candlewax. But The Harlequin was no dockside fuckhouse, thank you very much. A niche was set into the wall near the dormitory, painted with peeling gold leaf and suffused with the warm smell of incense. The statue of Ganymene was carved from bone. He was posed mid-dance, his smile welcoming.

Luca always thought that he looked kind. Almost like a friend.

Luca was a barbarian; he’d been raised to the Lady. As a child, all he’d known about the gods of Lyonesse was that they were worshipped by the overseers who whipped the skin off his father’s back. It wasn’t until Luca was sold to the training house that he learned about Ganymene. There was a faded painting of the god on the wall of the breaking room. After weeks—months?—of seeing no one but Master Trainer, Luca started to talk to it. Sometimes, when he was hurt badly enough, he thought he heard Ganymene talk back.

It had been a long time since Luca heard the god speak. Still, he never forgot. He visited the altar every night before evening service. The Lady wouldn’t be swayed by candles and cheap offerings, but Ganymene was the whore god. Like Luca, he’d probably been brought for less.

Tonight Luca brought Ganymene a vial of lavender scent. A gift from a client. There’d been a necklace, too, pearls strung on a golden chain. (“The color of your hair,” the client had said, wrapping Luca’s braid around his hand.) Master Boq had taken the necklace, of course, but the scent was cheap and he’d let Luca keep it. “An indulgence,” he’d said, guiding Luca’s mouth down to his crotch. “A pretty treat for my pretty Bird.”

Luca was careful not to spill too much scent on the altar each night, trying to make it last. Now he shook the last drops from the bottle. A measly offering. Hopefully Ganymene would understand. Looking at the statue’s marble smile, Luca thought he would.

“Please, Ganymene, be with me when I dance tonight,” he whispered. “Please help me honor my master. And please take my bad thoughts so I can obedient in my mind as well as my body. And please take Asher’s bad thoughts, too, and make it not so difficult for him to behave, because, Ganymene, I think the overseer really will kill him if he talks back one more time, but I swear, if you look into Asher’s heart you’ll _see_ he’s good, so please, just—just make him behave.”

“Hey, Luca!”

Luca looked up to see Asher bounding down the hall, as though the prayer had summoned him.

“Better light an extra candle,” he panted, skidding to a stop. “Master wants you five minutes ago.”

“But it isn’t Tuesday,” said Luca stupidly.

Asher shook his head.

“It’s not for that. He looked—I dunno. Drunk, anyway. What d’you think he wants?”

It was a good question. If Master Boq didn’t want Luca for sex, that meant he was being summoned for punishment. But what had he done wrong? He’d cried after what the Pig had done to him last time, but surely the Pig liked it when he cried? He always had in the past, anyway, but maybe he’d changed the rules, maybe—and, oh, Luca had failed in his service with Lord Fulke yesterday, when not even all his skill could rouse the man’s ancient cock, but that had happened before and his lordship hadn’t been angry, hadn’t even struck him. Still, that could be it. Nobles always took it personally when they were too old or drunk to get hard with him. Maybe Lord Fulke had asked to switch his appointments to someone else. Someone younger and tighter and better able to please him. If that was the case, Luca would be whipped for sure. But that was all right, he could take a whipping, only _Lady_, please don’t let Master Boq sell him…

Luca realized that he hadn’t answered the question. Asher was staring at him with badly-disguised panic.

“It’s nothing, Asher, really—he’ll have been at the Games all day, the blood gets him riled.”

“But it isn’t Tuesday.”

“Maybe he drew up a new schedule and Bagoas was too busy to tell us.”

“Or he’s so drunk he’s forgotten what day it is.”

Luca gave him a warning look.

“Asher, don’t.”

“It’s true. Anyway, why would he fuck you before a show? He never does that, even on Tuesdays.”

Luca shrugged and tried to smile.

“Men change their minds.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like it.” Asher scuffed his toe against the floor. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You _never _do anything wrong.”

“Don’t worry,” said Luca, with a confidence he didn’t feel. “Everything will be fine. I’ll make it fine.”

But when Luca arrived in Master Boq’s office, it was clear that everything was far from fine. Master Boq was leaning back in his chair with his gouty leg propped up on a stool. His eyes were closed, fingers steepled over his stomach. There was a bottle of sherry on the desk, half-drunk. The music box in the corner tinkled softly.

Luca went to his knees, arms folded behind his back. A respectful distance, but close enough for Master Boq to grab him. Or kick him. Luca wasn’t sure yet which mood his master was in.

“I sent that boy for you ten minutes ago,” said Master Boq without opening his eyes. “Should I punish his laziness or yours?”

“Mine,” said Luca immediately. “I was praying, Master.”

“And I suppose the god is more important than your master,” Master Boq sniffed.

“My master is my god in this world,” said Luca, choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t want to offend Ganymene, sir, in case he cursed the house with bad luck.”

Master Boq slit his eyes open. They were puffy, red-rimmed. Laudanum, then.

“I hope your piety hasn’t made you late for your appointments with clients, little Bird.”

“No, Master, never.”

“Only appointments with me?”

Luca bit his lip. _Stupid_. He should’ve realized Master Boq was feeling clever.

“Please, Master, I’m sorry.” He kissed the floor beneath his master’s velvet dressing-slippers. “I’m lazy and ungrateful and I deserve to be punished.”

Master Boq kicked him away, but without any particular malice.

“Change the music. _Í Fior, _I think. And pour me another glass of sherry.”

Luca did as he was told. It always made him nervous, reaching inside the clock-sized music box to switch the cylinders. The machine had cost a lot of money, far more than Master Boq had spent buying Luca. The cylinders were as big as rolling pins and studded with tiny metal teeth. As Luca wrestled the new one into its berth, an image appeared in his head of the whole thing landing on his master’s foot.

So Ganymene hadn’t taken his bad thoughts after all.

Luca pressed his thumb into a sharp metal tooth. The pinprick of blood was a reminder._ Control your perverse imagination, hole._

While Master Boq was distracted by the tinkling of the new cylinder, Luca took the opportunity to water down his sherry. Bagoas had taught him how to add just enough so their master wouldn’t notice. He’d said that it wasn’t disobedience if they were safeguarding their master’s interests. When Luca handed the drink to Master Boq, it gleamed no less red for the dilution.

“Rub my feet,” Master Boq ordered, kicking off his slippers.

Luca knelt and took a stale-smelling yellow foot into his lap. He massaged the arch until Master Boq groaned and relaxed back into his chair.

“There’s my good boy,” sighed Master Boq. “No, you stupid slut, I have tendonitis in my heel, don’t you know anything? Ah, yes, that’s better, just there. Dear child.”

Luca worked silently, loosening the joints of his master’s feet as the sherry loosened his tongue. When Master Boq spoke, his voice was drowsy, slurred.

“How long have I owned you, Luca?”

“Four years, Master.”

“You’ve come far in the world, little Bird.” Master Boq’s hand was heavy on his hair. “From half-dead in a dockside fuckhouse to starring in the satyr play of the finest house in Paradiso.”

“I live to please you, Master,” said Luca, trying with all his might to mean it.

He didn’t know why it was so difficult for him to love his master like he should, especially after everything Master Boq had done for him. There must be something wrong with Luca, a rot inside of him.

At least it didn’t show in his voice—bright, eager, mindless. _Good hole_. He was rewarded with Master Boq’s languid smile.

“Come here, little Bird. Show me your gratitude.”

Apprehension twisted in Luca's chest. He hadn’t had time to braid his hair or drape himself with jewelry the way Master Boq liked. Still, he prepared his smile, slipping out of his robe as he climbed into Master Boq’s lap.

To his relief, he felt the familiar twitch of his master’s cock under his ass. Luca had never understood what it was about his face, his body, that made men want him, so he worried sometimes that he wouldn’t be able to tell when it was gone. But as long as he could still please his the man who owned him, that was all that mattered.

“Kiss me,” Master Boq ordered.

Luca obeyed. Master Boq’s mouth tasted of sherry edged with the bitter aftertaste of laudanum. His hard cock was nestled against Luca’s ass, but he seemed content to kiss, to touch. His hands roamed aimlessly, pinching and twisting Luca’s nipples, groping between his legs. Luca reminded himself to be grateful that his master didn’t seem to want more.

“You love me, don’t you, Luca?”

“Yes, Master,” said Luca—too automatically, not enough enthusiasm, but Master Boq didn’t appear to notice. “I’ll do anything you want,” he added, and this, at least, he could mean with all his heart.

“Good boy.”

Master Boq gestured at his neck; Luca moved quickly to lick and nibble the loose wattle of flesh. His master gave a sigh of satisfaction. He let Luca work his way up to his ear, then pushed him back.

“I’ve just received word that there will be a special visitor playing Melchior tonight,” he said, stroking Luca’s face. “The ward of a very important man.”

“A client, Master?”

“Not yet, little Bird, but if you do your job well…”

Master Boq trailed off meaningfully.

“Yes, Master. Thank you for the opportunity, sir.”

“Mm.” Boq tweaked his nipple. “More sherry, boy.”

Luca took the glass of sherry and tipped it into his master’s mouth. He was practiced; just enough to wet Master Boq’s tongue, not enough to choke him.

“Perfect balance of flavor,” said Master Boq, smacking his lips. His fingers drifted into the cleft of Luca’s ass. “What do you know of politics, little Bird?”

“Nothing, Master.”

Master Boq chuckled.

“Naturally. What is it they say? ‘Brainless as a barbarian?’” He slid the tip of his finger inside Luca’s hole. “I suppose this is all you think about.”

Luca clenched around him, partly to let his master feel how ready he was for his cock and partly to work himself open. He hadn’t stretched yet. Master Boq wasn’t large, it would be easy to take him even dry, but Luca wanted to avoid a sore ass before the show if he could help it. He’d certainly have one after.

“The visitor,” Master Boq went on, slurring only a little. “I am above idle gossip, naturally, but one cannot help but hear things if one moves in certain circles. They say that he’s a bastard. The illegitimate child of Lord Argent’s only son. What do you make of that, little Bird?”

“Whatever you want me to, Master.”

“Good answer. Of course, with Lord Argent’s son dead, this ward is his only heir. If you secure him as a client, the house gains a valuable asset. But if you fail…”

He shoved in his finger, twisted it to the knuckle.

“Lord Argent is a dangerous man. His ward’s displeasure could cost us dearly. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Luca, gasping. “Yes, Master, I’ll try my best, I swear.”

Master Boq smiled. His eyes were like chips of ice.

“Do you remember where I found you, little Bird?”

Luca swallowed.

“Y-yes, Master.”

That broken note in his voice. Like the noise an animal made when it was about to be kicked.

Master Boq ran his free hand down Luca’s spine. There were scars there; long-healed, barely noticeable now, but Luca could still feel them. He wondered if his master could, too.

“Would you like to go back?” asked Master Boq softly.

Luca closed his eyes and he was there, he was in the fuckhouse. Like he’d never left. Chained to a filthy bed, legs spread wide to take another man and another and another, too many and never enough, the smell of them thick in his nose, his eyes, blinding him, and he could hear Robbie’s voice, kind and laughing, only it wasn’t Robbie, it was another man come to make him hurt in the place that was never given enough time to heal. It would never be Robbie again, but still, Luca hoped (_brainless barbarian_), and that made the pain new each time.

“I asked you a question, slut.”

Luca opened his eyes. The drowsiness was gone from Master Boq’s expression. He was watching Luca with cold attention.

“No, Master,” he whispered. “Please. I don’t want to go back.”

Master Boq stroked Luca’s face with mocking tenderness.

“Then you won’t merely try, will you? You’ll do your job so well that Lord Argent’s ward will think it truly is Ganymene he’s fucking. And should you fail me, by all the gods, I will take you back to Docktown and chain you to a bed myself. Do you understand?”

Luca realized, distantly, that he was on the verge of hyperventilating. Strange how calm he sounded, as though his voice came from a million miles away.

“Yes, Master. I understand. Thank you, sir, for being patient with me.”

“Good.” Master Boq shoved Luca off his lap. “I’m done with you. Go prepare for the show.”

Luca held himself together until the door to Master Boq’s office closed behind him. Then he slid down the wall, breath coming in shallow gasps. Something strange was happening to his vision. He could see the ceiling of the fuckhouse overhead. It turned like a wheel, faster and faster.

A man materialized over him, scowling. The thought came, disjointed, half-hysterical: _If you made him angry, you’ll be punished, hole_.

It wasn’t until Sark dragged Luca to his feet and shook him that he realized he wasn’t breathing. He gasped, lungs expanding painfully—and then the rush of euphoria, all too temporary, that accompanied the oxygen returning to his system.

Sark shook him again.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, sir,” Luca gasped. He blinked to clear the spots of white in his vision. “I’m sorry, sir, I—it’s nothing.”

Sark pushed wayward strands of hair back from Luca’s forehead. If Luca didn’t know better, he would’ve said the overseer looked concerned.

Then it was as if a shutter closed over his face. He pushed Luca away, hard enough to send his back into the wall.

“What’d the big man want with you, then?”

Luca bit his lip. Master Boq wouldn’t want a whore gossiping, but he couldn’t ignore a direct question from the overseer. And what if Sark already knew about the important visitor and was testing him? If Luca lied he’d be punished for sure. But maybe the test was to see if he could keep his master’s confidence, and he’d be punished if he _didn’t _lie…

Sark leaned in, grabbing Luca’s arm.

“Now, now, where are all your pretty manners? When a free man asks you a question, you answer it, boy.”

The smell of cheap tobacco on Sark’s breath was nauseating. Luca had to fight the urge to turn away.

“My master wanted to talk about my dance tonight. That’s all. Please, sir, I need to get ready,” he added, hating the whine that crept into his voice. “The show—”

“—Can wait.” Sark grinned, showing double rows of tea-colored teeth. “Why don’t you reach inside my jerkin and see what you find there?”

Luca swallowed and obeyed. His fingers closed around the corner of a brown paper package. He knew unmistakably from the shape what it contained.

“_Oh_…”

Luca could hear the yearning in his voice. The hunger.

“That’s right. Another book for your collection.” Sark slipped his hand inside Luca’s robe, snaking around his back. “Now. How will you pay for it?”

“I’ll do whatever you want, sir,” said Luca automatically, not taking his eyes off the book. Belatedly, he remembered the show, the special visitor. “Only, please, sir, let me pay in the morning.”

“The morning after Bacchanal, when you’ve lost your clutch and your hole’s so loose and sloppy I could fit my fist up it?”

Luca took Sark’s rough hand in his own (so small in comparison; a reminder of how careful he had to be, how badly the man could hurt him) and brought it to his mouth.

“I can take your fist, sir,” Luca murmured, brushing his lips against Sark’s smoke-stained fingers. “I can take anything.”

Sark’s breath grow labored as Luca sucked the tips of his fingers. Did he only imagine that the skin tasted faintly of blood?

“I like when you do that,” Sark hissed.

He pushed his fingers deeper, testing Luca’s throat. No gag reflex, of course; Luca had that trained out of him years ago. He tried to remember, as Sark explored the back of his throat, what it felt like to have his body reject intruders instead of welcome them.

“That’s nice,” Sark said. He pulled his fingers back and replaced them with his thumb, rubbing Luca’s bottom lip possessively. “I think I’d rather have my cock in your mouth than my fist in your ass.”

“Tomorrow, sir, I’ll be so good for you,” Luca said, trying to sound eager. “I’ll make it worth the wait, I swear—only please, sir, let me pay in the morning—”

“Bargain with me, would you? Little brat.”

His grip on Luca’s arm became bruising tight. Luca turned his face instinctively to take the blow.

But it never came. Sark dropped Luca’s arm and shoved him away.

“Go on, then. Bagoas is probably wondering where his star has gotten to.”

Luca bowed and backed away, hardly daring to believe his luck.

“But I’ll come for you tomorrow,” Sark called after him. “And I’d better find you spread and grateful that I’m going to fist your ass instead of flog it.”

Luca groaned inwardly. Not so lucky after all, then.

The dressing room was in the usual state of chaos. Naked boys jostled for space in front of the mirrors, cursing when their makeup application was ruined by a stray elbow or trodden foot. They talked loudly, bantered with each other, traded jokes and insults.

The old longing twisted in Luca's chest. He'd never been able to smother it completely, not even after all these years. Of course the other boys would never be so open with him. He was still a barbarian, for all he’d spent most of his life in Lyonesse. Sark taking an interest hadn’t helped. Bad enough to be the enemy, but the overseer’s bitch? Unforgivable.

_But worth it_, Luca thought. For books, anything was worth it.

Luca sneezed as the concentrated reek of perfume filled his nose. From the fact that Tris was leaning over his page and bawling abuse into his face, Luca surmised that the boy had something to do with the scent-bottle that lay in pieces on the floor. He looked like he was trying desperately not to cry.

Luca winced in sympathy. He looked around for his page, but Asher was nowhere to be seen.

“So the Golden Bird deigns to grace us with his presence at last.”

Luca turned to see Bagoas striding towards him, kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed in impatience. He folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe and arched a penciled eyebrow.

“Well?”

“I’m sorry, Bagoas. The master wanted me, and then the overseer—it’s my fault.”

Bagoas made a _hm_ of displeasure. He passed his eyes over Luca, appraising.

“Hair, makeup, costume…so much to be done. Come, let’s ready you before the curtain rises.”

Bagoas decided that Luca should look natural—“Like a virgin,” he said, with an ironic quirk of his brow—which, of course, took twice as long as the usual sloppy inch of greasepaint. Luca wasn’t sure why Bagoas bothered; his makeup would be ruined soon enough, smeared away by sweat and other fluids. But maybe that was the idea. Show him immaculate, only to make the contrast all the more striking once the Beast was finished with him.

As Bagoas rubbed carmine over Luca’s lips, Asher sidled into the dressing room. The smell of smokeleaf followed him, sweet and cloying. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils blown.

Luca clenched his teeth. _Lady_, not again. Where had he even gotten the stuff? A favor from a client? But no, Asher was far too disagreeable to earn favors. Stolen, then.

Thankfully, Bagoas didn’t seem to notice the smell or Asher’s vague expression. He boxed Asher’s ears for lateness and set him to braiding Luca’s hair. It was a task Asher was never any good at, but on smokeleaf he was worse than useless. In his hands, Luca’s hair snarled into tangles.

Luca waited until Bagoas was safely out of earshot before hissing, “You’re going to get yourself whipped.”

Asher rolled his eyes.

“I’m a professional,” he said loftily. “Former professional, anyway. And clients don’t even watch their pockets. It’s too easy.”

Luca dug his nails into his palms. Why couldn’t Asher understand the danger?

“If Sark finds out—”

“He won’t.”

“Asher.” Luca caught Asher’s hand, held his eyes in the mirror. “There are worse places than this.”

For a moment, Asher’s face seemed to crumple. Then he mustered a grin, broad with false cheer.

“Nah, not likely. Your hair looks like shit, by the way.”

It was true; he’d managed to weave the whole back of Luca’s head into a knot. It was a particular talent of Asher’s, Luca thought as he untangled his hair, being so bad at everything about being a pleasure slave. Almost as if he was trying to fail.

Asher watched Luca silently, lost in his own thoughts. Then suddenly he smiled, a real smile this time.

“You look just like my sisters playing cat’s cradle. You ever play it when you were a kid?”

Luca shook his head. He hadn’t known about games, not until Robbie. (_Don’t think about Robbie._) And after, there was no one to play them with.

Asher took two long strands of Luca’s hair and threaded them through his fingers.

“Good thing you’ve got so much hair, we don’t even need string. Now, you loop it around and around like this—stop laughing, Luca, this is a really serious game—”

“You’re just making a new knot!”

“—and then you pull the loop, see, so there’s a sort of crisscross…”

Bagoas’s reflection appeared behind them in the mirror.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Guiltily, Asher dropped his handful of Luca’s hair. Luca said quickly, “I’m sorry, sir. It was my idea.”

“Liar,” Asher muttered, crossing his arms.

Bagoas sighed.

“Asher, where is Ganymene’s mask?”

Asher’s expression grew even guiltier.

“Dunno.”

“Find it. Now.”

Asher darted out of the dressing room, quick as a cutpurse. He left a trail of elbowed ribs and trodden toes in his wake.

“Like a typhoon in a teacup,” Bagoas muttered. He turned to Luca. “Let’s see if we can undo the damage your page has done to your crowning glory.”

Bagoas was as skilled at dressing hair as Asher was hopeless. He combed out the tangles and worked in a bit of grease for shine.

“We’ll leave it mostly loose, I think,” he murmured, half to himself. “Just a few braids, this part pinned up…”

Luca was so used to men using his hair as a handle, a leash, that it was almost sinfully pleasant to have it handled gently. He let his thoughts drift. It wasn’t until Bagoas spoke that Luca realized he’d been half-dozing.

“Asher was fortunate to be assigned to you, you know,” Bagoas said, fastening a braid in place with a golden pin. “Any of the other boys would have had him caned crippled within the week.”

Luca thought of Asher’s tantrums, his sulks, the way he punched the wall to keep from crying.

“He misses his family,” Luca said. “He still thinks—” _He still thinks someone is coming to save him. _“But he’ll learn, Bagoas, I swear.”

“If only the master shared your confidence. Asher has been working the public room for six months now and he has yet to rise in the rankings.” His mouth tightened into a grim line. “The boy barely brings in enough to make him worth feeding.”

Luca’s hands were shaking; he twisted them together in his lap.

“But, Bagoas, you know it’s different for him, he’s a debt slave, freeborn, he’s not—not _used_ to it like I—like I—” Luca took a deep breath. “Please, sir, you can feed him out of my ration. He’ll learn, I _swear_ he’ll learn.”

“Your optimism is admirable,” said Bagoas drily, “but misplaced. My advice? Don’t get too attached to the boy. It will only make it more difficult for you when the master sells him.”

The words were like sand poured down Luca’s nose and throat. It hurt to breathe. He thought of Asher—Asher who could always make him laugh, who wasn’t afraid of anything—being held down, split open, screaming until his voice was gone, until he was just another mute dead-eyed piece of dockside meat.

_No. _That wasn’t going to happen. Not to Asher. Luca wouldn’t let it.

Before Luca could say anything, Asher clattered over, mask in hand.

“It was in the dormitory,” he announced. “Dunno how it got there, but it looks fine. See?” He held the golden half-mask to his face, upside-down.

“The costumes are not supposed to leave the dressing room,” said Bagoas without looking at him. “If you want to make yourself useful, fetch the bells and oil.”

“Yes, Bagoas,” Asher muttered, dropping the mask on the dressing-table and stalking off.

“He’ll learn,” Luca said again. “He will. I'll make him.”

Whether he was trying to convince Bagoas or himself, he didn’t know.

Bagoas arched an eyebrow and pointedly changed the subject.

“Have you been used yet tonight?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. You’ll be fresh.” He tucked another pin into Luca’s hair. “Remember, Ganymene was a virgin when the satyr raped him on Melchior’s altar. Even if you can’t replicate his purity, you should be as close to unsullied as possible. Ah, the typhoon returns,” he added, as Asher tramped over. “Put the bells around his hips, boy. Pull the strap tighter—_tighter_, and if the belt falls off during the show I’ll have you caned. There, that’ll do.”

Bagoas shooed Asher away and bent Luca over the dressing-table. He oiled his fingers and breached Luca’s entrance.

“You _are _fresh,” he murmured, pushing in the first finger. “We don’t want the satyr to tear you. The lord who bought Melchior’s ticket would demand his money back. Asher, fetch a dildo,” he ordered. “Eight inches, I think.”

Luca could see Asher clench his jaw, hands tightening into fists at his sides. Lady, why was it always so hard for him to obey? It had never been difficult for Luca.

But then, he'd been born a slave. Asher had only been debt-bound for two years; he still remembered what it was like to be free.

“Do it, Asher,” Luca hissed.

Asher hesitated another moment, as though proving a point. Then he turned on his heel and stomped off.

Luca was afraid that Bagoas would made some remark about Asher’s attitude, how impossible it would be to train him properly. Instead, Bagoas said, quite casually, “The master has received an offer for Bridda.”

“For _Bridda? _But Bridda’s first whore—he’s the top earner in the house! Why would the master sell him?”

Bagoas shrugged.

“Bridda’s weakening. He tires after only three or four men, and his regulars have dropped him.”

“Is he sick?”

“He coughs blood,” said Bagoas, adding a second finger. “Yesterday he fainted during an appointment.”

Luca exhaled.

“Consumption.”

“The master thinks so, yes.” Bagoas added more oil and worked in a third finger. “He let it be known that he would entertain offers for Bridda. A second-tier brothel put in a bid.”

“They don’t know he’s dying?”

“The master didn’t see fit to inform them.”

Luca bit his lip. Poor Bridda. With his burnished curls and his long lacquered nails, he’d had always seemed so elegant. Untouchable. Luca couldn’t imagine him wasting away in some shabby brothel off the Arcade.

“I suppose with Bridda gone, Tris will be first whore,” said Luca, thinking aloud.

“Not necessarily. Tris is older than he looks. And his client list, while impressive, has stagnated over the last year. Yours, on the other hand…”

Bagoas withdrew his fingers in order to add a fourth. He steepled them and pressed inside until Luca could feel the flat of his palm. Luca dropped his head to his chest and focused on taking deep, even breaths. There was a knot in his belly that seemed to tighten with every flex of Bagoas’s fingers. Lady, what was _wrong _with him? This should be the easiest part of the night. He’d been through it a thousand times.

“You’re having trouble,” Bagoas noted, rotating his wrist. “I hope it doesn’t affect your performance.”

Luca shook his head quickly.

“It won’t.”

“Good.”

Bagoas thrust his hand shallowly, letting Luca get used to the feel of it, the stretch and fullness. Luca was thankful for his patience. Master Boq would’ve rammed inside and beaten him after for making it difficult. And the Pig—no. Better not to think about the Pig.

“So Tris won’t be first whore?” Luca said, forcing his attention back to their discussion.

“The decision is the master’s, of course. But as you know, he never keeps a boy past twenty-seven. Even a favorite. Tris’s days are numbered.” Bagoas lowered his voice. “But you, Luca—your career is just beginning. Already you equal Tris and Bridda in prestige. You’re the best dancer on our books, perhaps the best in Lyonesse, and your client list grows more impressive by the day. I wouldn’t be surprised if the master passes over Tris and makes you first whore once Bridda is gone.”

First whore…Luca had never dared to let himself imagine it. He would receive clients in the best room in the house, and the men who visited him there would never be dirty or careless. They’d know how much he was worth, how much it would cost if they damaged him. Too much for even the Pig to pay. There would be favors, beautiful, expensive favors, some he might even be allowed to keep. And once a week there would be a cup of wine with his dinner. Luca had only ever tasted wine on the lips of clients, but Asher said that it made you feel like you were floating.

Asher. If Luca was first whore, then he could protect Asher.

“I know the master told you that a special visitor will be playing Melchior tonight,” Bagoas went on. “If you can secure him as a client, your promotion is assured. I want this for you, Luca. Tris lacks your…subtle touch. He could never serve the master’s interests as you can.”

Bagoas met his eyes in the mirror.

“Do we understand each other?”

Luca dropped his gaze. The fingers clinging to the edge of the dressing-table were bloodless, bony, his nails chewed to the quick. Nothing like Bridda’s long, elegant hands.

“Yes, Bagoas.”

“Good boy.”

For a moment, Bagoas sounded almost like the master.

Luca had been a nymph once. He could still recall the cramps that travelled up and down his thighs after what felt like hours of standing motionless as a statue. And, oh, how he’d longed to be the dancer playing Ganymene. He used all his time between appointments to practice, perfecting every movement. He’d known the entire dance by heart years before Bagoas decided he was ready to play the god.

Becoming Ganymene was worth everything. All the hours of practice, repeating the same steps over and over again until every part of him ached. Even the knowledge that once the dance was over the Beast would rip him open. Luca told himself he should welcome the pain, that it was good for the performance. He could be truly grateful when Melchior pulled the satyr off of him; he wouldn’t have to pretend.

But it hurt so much, what the Beast did. It would hurt for days and days, every time a man entered him. He knew it could be worse, the Beast wasn’t allowed to do real damage—but that was hard to remember when his cock was bruising Luca’s insides, his voice crooning horrible things in his ear.

Luca shook himself. Stupid to dwell on what he couldn’t change. Better to focus on the dance—and, after, on pleasing the important visitor.

It was dangerous, having so little information about the man. Luca didn’t know whether he was young or old, handsome or ugly, kind or cruel.

Of course, on some level it didn’t really matter how much or little Luca knew. If the man was old Luca might have to be especially clever to get him hard and keep him that way; if he was ugly, he might be self-conscious and require encouragement. And if he was cruel—well, Luca was used to cruel men. They were his specialty.

But not knowing…it wasn’t as though Luca had any control over what was done to him, but usually he could prepare, work out a strategy, ensure that he said what the man wanted, touched him how he wanted. Not knowing increased the chances that he would do something wrong.

Mercifully, Luca didn’t have time to dwell on that thought. Bagoas was giving the signal.

He stepped onto the stage and became the god.

Luca had always danced. Even before he’d heard music, before he learned how to move his body for the pleasure of a man. Dancing was what caught his first master’s attention; it was what saved him from the fuckhouse.

Still, Luca worried that it was wrong to love dancing so much. A good slave desired nothing but what it was told to desire, felt nothing but what it was told to feel. It lived for its master. What Luca felt when he danced had nothing to do with Master Boq, or any man. He danced for himself.

Luca drew the dance out as long as he could, longer than he should have. He knew that if he looked backstage he’d see Bagoas urging him to get on with it. The Beast’s impatience pressed like a heavy hand on his back. He was ready; it would be worse if Luca made him wait.

Still, it took all of Luca’s will to end the dance and turn to the Beast. That frisson of terror, sickly familiar. The taste of acid eating its way up his throat. The Beast’s face was red with greasepaint and split in a mocking grin. He took a step towards Luca.

Luca ran.

The chase was nothing like the dance. That brief, perfect moment of joy had dissipated utterly, replaced by dread and the heavy feeling of futility. Luca knew he was supposed to be caught, like Ganymene was, but still, there was the small, stupid hope that he’d escape.

But not even the god escaped. Luca felt the Beast’s hand on his hair, wrenching him back. He fell to his knees, only to be yanked up, dragged to the altar. The Beast threw him down on his back.

Luca had to work against the instinct that screamed at him to submit, go limp, spread his legs. Ganymene fought; that meant Luca had to fight, too. He kicked weakly. The Beast caught his leg and dragged him to the edge of the altar.

“Miss me, bitch?”

Luca couldn’t breathe. Fear disassembled the Beast into shapes and colors: the horned shadow of his head, vast dark shoulders, powerful square hands pushing his legs apart. Then there were fingers in him—no warning, just the abrupt, piercing invasion.

“Because I’ve missed you.”

There was no way for Luca to adjust to what the Beast did to him. There never was. He made it hurt on purpose, twisting and scissoring, the rhythm so brutal and irregular that Luca could never get used to it. A prelude to the real fucking.

“Master’s been trying to book you for ages,” the Beast panted in his ear. “Private session. Just you and me. And him, of course. Watching.”

He wrenched his fingers out, let Luca’s hole close, then shoved in again.

“But aren’t you just the most popular little whore in Lyonesse?”

The tempo of his thrusts changed, became smoother, more regular. He flexed his wrist and pushed forward, unerringly finding that bad place inside of Luca, the place he hated, where dangerous heat pooled in his belly. This was one of the Pig’s favorite games, having the Beast rub Luca there to see if he’d betray himself. Luca never did, he was too well-trained (_Be grateful for what I taught you, hole_). But the struggle against his own body, the sensations almost indistinguishable from nausea—he would rather the Beast rip him open than this.

Fortunately, without the Pig to egg him on the Beast soon tired of the game. He yanked his fingers from Luca’s ass and shoved them into his mouth.

“Told master we should book that rude little page of yours,” the Beast crooned. “Make _him _scream.”

Until that moment, Luca believed there was nothing a man could say or do that would make him fight back. Then his teeth clamped shut on the Beast’s fingers hard enough to draw blood.

The Beast roared. He snatched his hand from Luca’s mouth, grabbed a handful of hair, and slammed his head into the altar. The world slid sideways, and Luca went with it.

He came back to the coolness of stone against his cheek. The Beast had turned him on his fours. Luca knew what came next. He responded automatically, bearing down on the burning weight that was forced into him with all the tenderness of a cudgel. It seemed to go on and on, endlessly, until at last he felt the Beast’s balls slap his crack, the tip of his cock buried deep in his belly.

When the Beast pulled out, it was like he was bringing Luca’s insides with him. When he slammed back in, Luca could feel it in his throat. Pain wrung the breath from him.

At least he could go limp now. Let it happen. His body knew how to take it. He could let his mind drift away.

Except the Beast never made it that easy. He knew exactly how to bring Luca back: changing the angle, prising his rim open with both thumbs, twisting his nipples like he was trying to wrench them from his chest. When he rose for leverage and started pounding in earnest, Luca thought he would pass out.

Instead he reached back with shaking hands to hold himself open. That’s what the men in the audience would want to see. He had to give the men what they wanted.

After a small eternity, the Beast pulled out. Luca gasped at the sudden emptiness. He felt cool air inside him. Then the Beast was in front of him, pressing his blunt, glistening cockhead to Luca’s lips.

“Open wide, pretty.”

Luca opened wide. The cock pushed in. It wasn’t any easier taking the Beast from this end. Just a different sort of agony.

By the time the music signaled Melchior’s approach, Luca’s throat was raw. He tasted blood trickling down the back of it when the Beast pulled out. Without the cock in his mouth, the hands in his hair, he couldn’t keep himself up. He slumped boneless on the altar. His eyes were wet. A layer of mingled fluids covered his face like a second mask. _Filthy whore, _he thought, but he was too exhausted to feel the rush of loathing those words usually brought.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Melchior stumble onto the stage. Even with the mask, Luca could tell that he was young. His clothing was expensive, tailored exquisitely, but he carried himself with the catlike self-possession of a mercenary. Luca felt the prickle on his skin, his body warning _danger_.

But the Beast didn’t have Luca’s instincts. He approached Melchior with his usual swagger. Luca knew at once that this was a mistake. The men who played Melchior were always rich lords with soft hands who quaked before the Beast, too cowed to do more than poke at him. Before tonight, the Beast had to go out of his way to make his defeat at their hands even halfway believable.

But this Melchior was not like the others. He moved so quickly that Luca almost couldn’t follow. One moment the Beast was upright; the next, Melchior’s fist smashed into his jaw. 

The Beast went down so comprehensively that Luca thought that he was dead.

But no, his chest was still moving. Unconscious, then. There was blood on his face, making tracks in the greasepaint.

Luca felt a giggle rise in his wrecked throat. He clenched his teeth to keep it there. Lady, was he mad or dreaming? The Beast, knocked out by a client—by the ward of the important man, Master Boq’s special visitor. That made Melchior more dangerous than the Beast…

Melchior bent over the Beast to check his pulse. Long, efficient fingers found exactly the right place on his neck. Satisfied, he stood and turned to Luca.

Luca realized he was shaking so badly his teeth were chattering. A voice in the still-operating part of his brain ordered him to stop moving. Melchior might mistake any movement for resistance and punish him for it.

Slowly, as if approaching a feral dog, Luca reached out his hand, showing the soft of his palm, his wrist. _See, my lord? Your slave won’t fight_.

Melchior threw the sword down and started towards the altar. Luca rolled onto his fours: ass up, head down, legs spread as wide as the altar would allow. The first pose any whore learned. There was no ambiguity about what was being offered, no modesty on the part of the one offering it. Total submission. Luca could only pray it would be enough to appease the man who loomed over the altar like a cold shadow.

There were hands on his waist, and Luca was sure that next he would feel the man’s cock next. But no, Melchior was only turning him over. He must want to watch Luca’s face while he fucked him.

Luca moved quickly, pulling his knees up and open. _See how ready your slave is, my lord?_

Melchior was even younger than Luca had thought. He wore his red hair partly pulled back in a style Luca associated with University students, not lords. His jaw was sharp, angular, rough with stubble. Behind the mask, his eyes were wide, unblinking, pupils dilated hugely. Luca recognized the effects of bliss. Fear twisted in his chest. Men were careless when they were blissed, desire eclipsing everything.

But when Melchior touched Luca, his hands were gentle. Hesitant, even. He didn’t hold Luca down and shove into him. Instead, he kissed the hollow of Luca’s throat. Could he feel how fast Luca’s heart was beating?

“You’re beautiful,” said Melchior, voice rough with arousal.

_Now, _Luca thought, _he’ll do it now_, but no, the man was still hesitating, even with his erection threatening to split open his breeches. There was something he wanted that Luca wasn’t giving him.

Luca drove his teeth into his lip. _Only good for one thing and you can’t even get him to do that, hole._

Maybe—maybe Melchior wanted Luca to touch him. It would be dangerous; Luca hadn’t been given permission. But the lord was so peculiar, so impossible to read—he was hard, but he wasn’t _doing _anything about it, even with Luca spread and ready under him. Nervous, maybe? Better not go for his cock right away.

Instead, Luca summoned his courage and lifted his hand to Melchior’s cheek. The lightest possible brush of his fingertips. Just enough to invite the lord to take more.

It worked. The man let out a stuttering breath.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” said Melchior. And he did.

Oh.

_Oh._

The mouth that closed on Luca’s was hot with need. It tasted of smoke and wine and bliss and something else, something Luca half-recognized but could not name. He had the curious sensation of hovering between sleep and waking, trying to hold on to a dream already slipping from his memory.

It wasn’t a long kiss. Melchior’s lips met Luca’s only briefly before he pulled back. Luca had just enough time to note that Melchior’s eyes were the color of wet stone before the man reached down and ripped the mask from his face.

Luca went still. He could feel the man’s anger, the confusion, radiating from him like a fever. He looked at Luca as if he wanted to hit him.

But no blow came. Instead Melchior turned and ran, leaving Luca alone on the stage.

Fear was a strange thing. Luca couldn’t have said what happened next. There was no continuity, just a series of flashes: on the altar, backstage, being half-dragged down a hallway. Then he was in Master Boq’s office, and a many-ringed hand was cracking across his cheek.

As slaps went, it wasn’t particularly hard, even with the edge of a gem cutting Luca’s lip open. But the sharp burst of pain was enough to slice through the fog.

Luca went to his knees, hand cupped over his mouth to keep blood from staining his master’s carpet. In the back of his mind, the voice mocked him: _Do you really think you can get in _more_ trouble, hole?_

“What happened?” said Master Boq, with deceptive calm.

Luca licked his lip, wincing at the bright flare of pain from the split.

“I don’t know, Master. He, I, it was like always, except the l-lord, Melchior, he knocked out the B-Beast—”

“The Beast?”

“What the boys call Councilor Bors’s slave, Master,” Bagoas murmured.

“Ah. Fitting. Go on, slut.”

Luca twisted his hands together miserably.

“Master, I’m sorry—I don’t know what I did, he just, he k-kissed me, and then he was so angry—he pulled off my m-mask and he looked, his face, and then he ran, and I don’t, I don’t know what I did, but Master, I s-swear I’ll make it right—”

“Shut up.”

Luca fell silent, his chest heaving. Strange how his breath came so fast, yet he couldn’t seem to fill his lungs.

Master Boq turned to Bagoas.

“Well? Does the boy tell the truth?”

“Yes, Master. I saw the whole thing from backstage. And if I may be so bold as to offer an explanation for his lordship’s behavior—”

“You may not.”

Master Boq pressed a dressing-slipper between Luca’s shoulder-blades, forcing him down. Luca lifted his hips and arched his back, presenting his sore, open hole. He wondered distantly if Master Boq would take him like this, on the floor.

Instead he felt his master’s plump finger tracing the brand on his lower back.

“Tell me when you got this.”

“At the end of my training, Master.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven, Master.”

“And why did they give you this mark, boy?”

“Because—” _Because I’m a hole, a whore, a toy_. “Because I’m a pleasure slave, Master.”

“It’s the mark of the best training house in Lyonesse,” Bagoas murmured, his voice light, insistent, like the pressure of a skilled hand. “A sign of the boy’s value.”

Master Boq gave a harsh bark of laughter.

“Clever, Bagoas, trying to remind me of how much this disobedient piece of shit is worth. What are you worth, boy?”

“Nothing,” Luca whispered, knowing it was true. “A pleasure slave who can’t please its master is worth nothing.”

“Glad to see that you remember that lesson, at least. You worthless, brainless barbarian.”

Master Boq moved his foot to the back of Luca’s neck and pressed down, hard enough to choke him.

“Do you remember, boy, what I said I’d do with you if you failed me?”

The carpet muffled Luca’s sob.

“Master, I beg you.” Bagoas spoke quickly, urgently. “Remember the boy’s client list. He’s one of our best earners, third whore of the house, he’s never made trouble before, far from it, his behavior has always been exemplary—”

“If you don’t shut up, Bagoas, gods help me, I will have Sark take the skin from your back.”

Bagoas fell silent.

“Then again, boy, I suppose your gelded protector has a point,” Master Boq went on. “Why lose so much of my investment when I could simply sell you to Councilor Bors? I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that he grows more and more impatient for your purchase. My contacts tell me that he and that monstrous slave of his have quite…_particular_ tastes. I am, of course, too careful of my stock to cater to them here. But perhaps you’ve grown bored of the Harlequin. Perhaps you’d rather entertain Bors and—what is it you called him? The Beast? A shame to think what they’ll do to that delicious little body. Beauty like yours comes only once in a generation; such a pity to see it ruined. If only you’d done as you were told…”

Luca buried his face in his hands. He sobbed silently, biting down on his palms when a cry threatened to break loose, because even if he was a worthless, brainless barbarian (and he was, he was), Luca still knew better than to make noise his master didn’t care to hear.

Master Boq lifted his foot from Luca’s neck. He used the toe of his slipper to tilt Luca’s head up.

“Beg,” he said softly.

Luca begged. He begged mindlessly, so far gone into desperation that he could barely hear his own voice. He wouldn’t remember what he offered; only that after Master Boq gave the order for him to stop, Bagoas’s face was white, his expression faintly ill.

“Very nice, boy.” Master Boq’s hands were laced over his stomach; he looked like he’d just eaten a satisfying meal. “Very…persuasive. Perhaps I’ll keep you after all.”

Luca gasped with relief. He kissed and kissed the floor by his master’s foot, ignoring the sting of his split lip. A fraction of what he deserved, the pain his master’s mercy had spared him.

“You’ll have to be whipped, of course.” Master Boq turned to Bagoas. “See to it, eunuch. And remind the overseer not to break the skin. I won’t have my little Bird ruined.”

Luca was expecting it, but still, he felt his chest constrict. It had been a long time since he’d been whipped.

“Master, the boy is dancing tomorrow,” said Bagoas. “Indeed, he dances every week this month. The time it would take for him to recover from such a punishment…”

He trailed off, allowing their master to imagine all those refunded tickets.

“The house could absorb the loss of revenue, of course, but would it not be better to discipline the boy in some way that leaves him fit to work?”

Master Boq made a _tch _of irritation.

“Fine. Put him out in the public room, then. Price him as the lowest whore on our books. He can stop when he’s earned enough to make back the price of Melchior’s ticket.”

The public room lay at the heart of the Harlequin. It was a great stone chamber like the mouth of a tomb. A flight of stairs led up to a warren of little rooms, each with a bare bed. Men paid, chose a boy, and took him to a room. Once the man was finished, the boy went down to find another. And on and on until there were no more takers or the doors closed.

After Master Boq bought Luca from the fuckhouse, the public room had seemed like paradise. The bloodless sheets, the basin to wash in, even a little time to rest between clients; it was all an impossible luxury, part of some beautiful dream. Luca had gotten dangerously accustomed to comfort as he rose. Regular meals, regular clients, a private room to take them in. How had he let himself become so spoiled? He deserved this fall from grace. It was a lesson. A reminder. _Never forget what you are_.

Of course, working the public room as the Golden Bird was very different than being just another nameless whore. The men couldn’t believe their luck. They reached for Luca with greedy hands, already hard, ravenous, eating him with their eyes. If it wasn’t for Bagoas, they would have fallen on him like wolves.

But Bagoas made the men go one at a time. Luca took each client up the stairs, into whatever room was open. He knelt or bent over or braced himself against the wall. The men had been given strict instructions not to damage him, and most were restrained, cautious even, as though Luca were some glass treasure they could break, but others were too excited to control themselves. It was Luca’s fault, he knew—so loose it must’ve seemed he could feel nothing, yet so bruised inside that every thrust was agony.

_Punishment is supposed to hurt_, he reminded himself. He was careful not to let the pain show on his face unless he thought the man would want it.

When Luca could no longer climb stairs, Bagoas sent the men to him. When he could no longer walk, they lined up outside.

The hours slipped away. Luca let them go. Time was like air, water, sand. Nothing he could hold.

Finally, after what could have been several hours or several years, the room was empty. Luca was alone. The bed under him was soaked with sweat and cum. He hurt so much in so many different places that it was almost like not hurting at all.

_Move, _he thought, _it’s over and you aren’t allowed to be on the bed_, but his body didn’t belong to him and it would not take his orders.

He gave up. Drifted. Let himself think of nothing.

There was a figure bending over him then, blurred and vast. The Beast? No, a bear. A bear with an ember between its teeth.

Luca shook his head and the figure slid into focus. Not a bear. Sark, smoking a cigarette.

“Did I earn enough?” Luca croaked. He could barely hear himself.

“Priced like that, it’d take you a year to earn that ticket back. You’re done, though. Night’s over.”

The relief that washed over Luca was so profound that he laughed—thin and weak and a little mad, but a laugh all the same. Sark looked astonished. Then his expression softened, became something else. He snuffed the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, his eyes not leaving Luca’s face.

Of course. Of course Luca still had to pay for the book. He just—he didn’t know what he was thinking, but he had no right to feel disappointed. No right to feel anything.

Sark seemed to read Luca’s mind. He snorted in disbelief.

“You think I’d take you like this? You’re disgusting.”

Funny, Luca would’ve thought he was too far gone to feel shame. It was true, he was disgusting. Lady, just look at him, leaking cum all over the bed. Stupid to think that Sark would want him. That anyone would. _Worthless, brainless barbarian._

“I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered.

Sark flicked the end of the cigarette onto the bed. An eloquent gesture; Luca understood it at once. This was where trash was disposed of.

“Can you walk?”

Luca could, but barely. Sark had to half-carry him to the showers. He left Luca there with a bar of soap and a mostly-empty tin of salve. The showers were deserted, which meant the doors must’ve closed ages ago; everyone was already asleep, exhausted by Bacchanal service.

It was almost eerie, the quiet. A boy had hanged himself here a few years ago, bedsheets knotted into a rope that he tied to the pipes. Luca imagined that if he looked up, he’d see feet turning in slow circles over his head.

After scrubbing away the worst of the filth, Luca checked his body for damage. He could count backwards from a hundred in Erminian, which meant he didn’t have a concussion. No broken bones or torn muscles. His ribs were bruised, but not cracked. His face was bruised as well, but not badly enough to ruin him for service. He hadn’t lost any teeth. His throat and ass were at the throbbing stage, when every movement sent jolts of pain through him, but nothing was torn beyond repair. The salve would help the healing, he knew, even if it did sting horribly when he rubbed it between his legs.

All in all, it wasn’t the worst Bacchanal he’d ever had.

Luca finished cleaning himself and limped to the dormitory. He and Asher slept by the far wall; he had to pick his way between rows of pallets occupied by snoring boys. Asher was already asleep, curled tight as a fist under his thin blanket. There was a livid bruise coming up on his cheek, from Sark or a client Luca didn’t know.

Luca knelt beside him and brushed his dark curls back from his forehead. Asher’s scowl smoothed a little. He leaned into Luca’s hand, murmuring dream-nonsense.

_Can’t protect him now, hole. Can’t even protect yourself_.

Luca shook his head to dispel the voice. No good thinking like that. No good thinking at all.

He was so tired suddenly. It took almost all his strength to crawl into his pallet. Burrowing under the blanket, he felt a sharp corner dig into his side. His fingers closed around something hard and square, wrapped in brown paper.

The book. The book he hadn’t paid for.

Luca hugged it to his chest. _Tomorrow_, he promised himself.

He fell asleep with the book wrapped in his arms like a lover.

His dreams, when they found him, were unspeakable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the graphic on-screen rape of a child (Luca, age 13).

_Five years ago_

Robbie was kissing Luca. It was his favorite thing to do, and so he wondered sometimes whether he oughtn’t do it so often. Fanny used to complain that the more opium she smoked the less she felt it, and Robbie worried that the same thing might happen to him—that Luca’s lips on his, the soft noises he made, the way his eyelids fluttered shut, would somehow cease to fill him with pleasure.

But then he came to his senses and realized that was impossible.

Still, he really shouldn’t spend all their time together kissing Luca. They only had a few precious hours before Crawley returned from the Games. He’d want Luca then, he always did. Robbie hated the idea of Crawley touching Luca the way he was now. It made him feel the sort of anger that was indistinguishable from nausea.

“We really ought to get back to work,” Robbie sighed, surveying the abandoned math primer with distaste. The only thing that made school tolerable was coming home and teaching Luca what he’d learned.

“Yes, Robbie.”

Luca was still clinging to him, his small hand fisted in Robbie’s shirt. He always tried to press himself as close to Robbie as possible during these visits. Not that Robbie minded. He loved the feeling of Luca tucked under his arm. Holding Luca like this, Robbie could almost pretend he could protect him.

In the two years since Crawley had bought him, Luca had barely grown at all, while Aunt Mina was forever complaining that Robbie had outstripped yet another set of clothes. Robbie knew that part of the reason Luca stayed so undersized was because he didn’t eat on purpose, trying desperately to stave off puberty. And that was Robbie’s fault, because he still didn’t have enough money to buy Luca. Not even a fraction of a fraction of it, even fighting most weekends and running Harrow’s errands. He counted the coins under his bed every morning, some stupid part of him hoping they’d have doubled their number overnight. But it was always the same amount: too little.

“Robbie?” Luca was looking at him anxiously. “You went away.”

“Just thinking.” He pulled Luca to him and kissed his forehead. “Show me how to add negative numbers.”

Luca obeyed, detailing each step in his soft, serious voice. He was so smart, a million times smarter than Robbie, even if he would never believe it. Luca was teaching Robbie how to speak barbarian, and that was much slower going.

Once Luca was finished, he looked up at Robbie through the fine net of his lashes.

“Did I get it right?”

“’Course you did.”

The smile that broke over Luca’s face was so sweet that Robbie had to kiss him again. Luca sighed into his mouth. The sound went to Robbie’s heart before traveling lower. Luca had a sixth sense for when Robbie was hard—which these days was almost always. His body was changing everywhere, even if Luca’s wasn’t. Luca touched the inside of Robbie’s thigh, the graze of fingertips enough to send a bolt of lightning to his groin.

“Please can we do it?” he whispered.

Robbie’s cock ached. He shook his head.

“Not until I buy you, remember?”

“Just my mouth,” Luca pleaded. “It’ll feel good, I promise.”

“Let me do it to you, then.”

Luca sighed, as though Robbie was being very stupid.

“I’m supposed to do it to _you_. It’s what I’m for.”

“When you’re mine,” said Robbie, cupping his face. “Not ’til then. I made a promise.”

“You’re…o-obstinate, Robbie,” said Luca, carefully enunciating the new piece of vocabulary.

Robbie kissed the tip of his nose.

“Good word.”

“You taught it to me.”

“How d’you say it in barbarian?”

“Um—stubborn. _Ystfymych._”

“Sounds like a sneeze.”

Luca laughed.

“You always say that. Or a stomach gurgle.”

As if on cue, Luca’s stomach made a forlorn noise. Robbie ran his hand over the sharp cage of his ribs and into the hollow between.

“You aren’t eating again.”

Luca flinched and looked away.

“He says if I grow another inch he’ll sell me.”

A cold weight settled in Robert’s chest. As though he’d swallowed a stone.

“That won’t happen,” he said roughly. “Look at you, you’re beautiful, you’re fucking perfect, he’d have to be crazy not to want you.”

Luca shook his head. His eyes were remote.

“Too old,” he whispered. “All used up.”

Robbie knew those weren’t his words. Gently, he took Luca’s chin and turned the boy’s face to him. 

“_Gwylyn lé_,” he said firmly. _Beautiful_.

Robbie would always regret that his lips were a fraction from Luca’s when the door opened.

Lord Crawley stood frozen on the threshold. In the moment before the shouting started, Robbie had time to think how strange it was that Crawley looked so little like the monsters from storybooks. There was nothing in his face to indicate the falseness of the mask he wore, the ugliness that lay beneath.

Then Crawley plunged at Robbie with his fingers curled into claws.

Harrow had started Robbie fighting when he was eight. There was money in it, not as much as he made off of Fanny and the other girls, but enough to line his pockets. Robbie knew how to weave and duck, how to tuck his hand into a fist and send it with unerring aim into the most vulnerable parts of his opponent. When Crawley came at him, Robbie leapt up, his body falling at once into a fighter’s stance.

The man was taller than him, but not by much. Robbie had grown a lot that year, filling out in the chest and shoulders. And he was _fast_, fast enough to dodge Crawley’s punch and land a flurry of his own—ribs, solar plexus, the fleshy part of the abdomen. Crawley doubled over, heaving dry.

Robbie liked to think that he would’ve had a chance had Crawley’s friends not arrived. He didn’t even see them come in. They were just on him all at once. Two men, but it felt like more. Robbie had forgotten that lords were taught to fight.

Under the thump of their fists, he heard Luca’s high, terrified voice: “Please don’t hurt him! Please, please don’t hurt him!”

But they did, of course. Robbie didn’t even have time between blows to catch his breath. He was on the verge of passing out when the beating stopped. He was dragged onto his knees by his hair. One of Crawley’s friends put his boot on Robbie’s splayed-out hand with just enough pressure to let him feel bones rubbing against each other.

Crawley had Luca on the floor. With one hand, he held Luca’s wrists over his head; with the other, he was squeezing the boy’s thin throat so hard his lips were blue. When Crawley released his grip, Luca gasped, desperately pulling in as much air as he could before Crawley cut off his supply again.

Some dark instinct told Robbie that Crawley had done this before. There were always bruises around Luca’s throat, and he’d never tell Robbie how he’d gotten them. He’d only say that it was his fault. That he’d deserved it_._

“Get the fuck off him!” Robbie shouted, straining against the hands that held him.

The boot on his fingers pressed down in warning.

Aside from the smile that played on his lips, Crawley ignored him. After a moment, he released Luca’s wrists and eased the grip on his throat just enough for Luca to breathe if he worked for it.

“What do you think, toy?” Crawley asked softly. “Should I play our little game with your wharf rat instead?”

Luca shook his head frantically. His hands flew to Crawley’s—not to push them away, but to close them tighter around his own throat. Robbie saw him try to form a word. It might have been _please_.

Crawley chuckled, as though he’d been told a joke. He used his hold on Luca’s throat to push himself to his feet. His hair was damp with sweat; he smoothed it back from his forehead. When he spoke, his voice quivered with barely-contained rage.

“You fellows take the rat. I’ll punish my toy.”

The last thing Robbie saw before the door closed was Luca curled on the floor with Crawley standing over him.

Crawley’s friends were not creative, but they were thorough. They tied Robbie’s arms behind his back and worked him over with their fists and belts. He heard his ribs crack under the weight of a boot. They paid special attention to his kidneys and the cringing flesh between his legs.

By the time they were finished, Robbie wasn’t fighting anymore. He was barely conscious.

Indeed, he couldn’t remember being dragged back to the room where Luca was kept. He was pulled from the gray between by the cauterizing burn of ammonia in his nostrils. He jerked so hard he almost knocked the vial from Crawley’s hands.

“Smelling salts,” said Crawley. He capped the vial and tossed it onto the nightstand. “My toy is well acquainted. It has a nasty habit of passing out without permission.”

Crawley stood and crossed the room to pour himself a drink. Robbie’s eyes were drawn past him, to the small body in the corner. Luca had been left hanging by his wrists, chains winched so high he could barely rest on his tiptoes. The whip had carved thick welts from his shoulders to the backs of his knees. There were angry-looking streaks of red across his chest, stomach, hips. He was so slight the lash must’ve wrapped around him. Robbie flinched to see a bloody stripe on his penis.

Luca’s face was wet, lips swollen from biting. His eyes were squeezed shut. Robbie knew he was pretending to be somewhere else.

“Let him go,” Robbie croaked. One of his back teeth had been knocked loose; when he spoke, blood ran down his throat.

Crawley smiled nastily.

“Wish, command.”

He released the cuffs and Luca crumpled to the floor. Crawley kicked him—without any particular intent, the way one might kick a dog. Robbie cried out, but Luca made no noise at all.

“Please,” Robbie said, hating the way his voice broke. “Please, my lord, I’ve got money, a hundred crowns almost, just let me buy him—”

Crawley and his friends burst out laughing. Robbie fought the urge to lunge at them.

“Almost a hundred crowns? My, what a fortune,” said Crawley drily. “As it happens, Lord Alvey came to inspect the merchandise as well. Charles, how much had you planned to offer?”

“Twenty thousand,” said the man holding Robbie’s arm. “And I was prepared to throw in Desert Gold’s new foal to sweeten the pot.”

Robbie’s stomach dropped. He’d known he didn’t have enough, but he couldn’t have guessed that he was so far off.

“Of course, that was before he knew that the boy had been debauched by a filthy urchin from Docktown,” Crawley went on. “You know, when Mina came to me two years ago and begged that I find some employment for her nephew, she told me that your mother was a whore. I failed to realize that the moral contamination was inherited.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that,” Robbie hissed. “You sick fucking bastard—”

The man holding Robbie slammed his head into the floor. He heard his nose crunch. Funny how he could barely feel it, but the cry from the corner was like a knife in his heart.

“What a dirty mouth you have,” said Crawley, pouring more cognac into his glass. “Perhaps I’ll take your tongue and let you bleed out from the stump.”

Luca made another noise. This one was pleading. Robbie felt the knife twist deeper.

“What’s that, toy?” Crawley tilted his head. “Do you have something to say?”

Luca looked at him with eyes so big that he looked hypnotized. His bruised throat worked agonizingly, as though he tried to swallow but couldn’t.

Crawley chuckled.

“Ah, but of course you’re too well-trained to speak without permission. Go on, then.”

It took a few tries for Luca to get the words out. His voice, always soft, was now almost soundless. Robbie tried to block out the things Luca said—calling himself _slave _and _it _and _master’s toy_, begging Crawley not to hurt Robbie, to punish him instead, offering things in exchange that made Robbie want to vomit—but he couldn’t not hear.

Finally Crawley made a sign with his hand and Luca fell silent so abruptly it was as though his throat had been cut.

“Interesting,” said Crawley, swirling the cognac in his glass. “My toy would have me believe this transgression is all its fault. That it seduced you. Is that true, rat?”

“No,” said Robbie immediately. He’d bitten his tongue when his head hit the floor; his voice was thick, drunk-sounding. “No, it was me. My fault. He—I forced him.”

“Hm.” Crawley looked down at Luca thoughtfully. “I’m rather inclined to believe my toy. After all, I’m well acquainted with how very charming it can be. Of course, it hardly matters now where the true fault lies.”

He put down his glass and slipped off his signet ring. Robbie saw for the first time that the golden surface glistened red with blood.

“Now, I could have you arrested for interfering with my property, rat,” said Crawley, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “But I have a better way of teaching you your place.”

Robbie didn’t know what Crawley meant, but Luca did. He moaned, low and hopeless. It wasn’t until Crawley threw Luca onto the bed that Robbie understood what was going to happen.

He surged to his feet, knocking back the hands that held him, only to be recaptured in the next moment. Crawley’s friends wrestled him to the floor. They tied his hands to his ankles, so when they pulled him to his knees he couldn’t even struggle.

Luca wasn’t struggling at all. He lay where Crawley had thrown him, shivering. There was so much suffering in his face.

Robbie might not have been able to move, but he could still speak. He cursed Crawley with every oath and in every tongue he knew. Crawley, unfastening the placket of his breeches, just rolled his eyes.

“Gag him. He’s not the one I want to hear scream.”

But it was still Robbie who screamed when Crawley slammed into Luca—screamed through the gag, until he was choking, until he couldn’t breathe. Luca didn’t cry out at all. Not even when Crawley started thrusting. He only made bitten-off noises, the sort of involuntary sounds a body couldn’t help when it was being abused beyond endurance. He was controlling himself for Robbie. Luca didn’t want to upset him; that’s why he wasn’t giving Crawley what he wanted.

But Crawley was determined. He used his teeth and hands and cock, the proportions of it sickeningly wrong as he drove into Luca. Robbie had grown up in a whorehouse, he’d been around sex his whole life, but he’d never seen it up close like this. When Robbie thought about having sex with Luca, it had been in reference to the things he was able to do to himself. He knew that were parts of Luca, openings, that could replace his hand, but he hadn’t been prepared for the violence of it. The pain.

And Luca took it all silently. Robbie wanted to yell _Scream, just scream if you need to, if that’ll make it better, easier to survive this, _but the gag, he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything.

Luca started to break down after the fifth time Crawley had to use the smelling salts. His nipples were chewed raw, his lips split, his genitals swollen and purple. He shivered like he was freezing to death even though his hair was matted with sweat. When Crawley picked him up by his waist and drove him back down onto his cock, Luca’s whole body jerked. He gave a strangled shriek.

Robbie closed his eyes. He didn’t know he hadn’t thought to before. It was like at the fights, when an outmatched man was being beaten so badly that you couldn’t look away. But Robbie didn’t want to see. He wanted, quite desperately, to be dead.

Then Luca screamed, really screamed, like he was the one dying. Robbie’s eyes flew open. Crawley’s icy, amused gaze fixed on him as he pushed something between Luca’s legs.

His hand. He was, with his hand. His whole hand. Robbie couldn’t—he hadn’t known that was possible, before.

“Keep your eyes open, rat. Or I’ll show this treacherous little whore more pain than you could ever dream.”

When Crawley pulled out his hand it was red to the wrist, like a glove. The smelling salts had to be used again after that. On Robbie this time.

Finally, Crawley seemed to be close to finishing. He was panting hard, his rhythm stuttering, erratic. Luca lay limp under him. He whimpered softly, pleadingly, like an animal so beaten it entreats its tormenter for mercy.

When Crawley turned him onto his fours without pulling out, Luca made a wrenching cry. He couldn’t keep himself up; Crawley had to hold his hair.

“Look at your lover, toy,” Crawley growled. “Look at him and tell him who you belong to.”

Luca’s eyes were glassy, long lashes soaked with tears. For a moment Robbie didn’t think Luca saw him—but then his gaze focused, became clearer. Some life appeared in that awful blankness.

“I said _tell him who you belong to_,” Crawley snarled, snapping his hips brutally.

Between sobs, Luca managed to choke out, “You—I belong to you—you’re my master and I’m yours—only yours—forever—”

And as he spoke he looked at Robbie with such rapt intensity that Robbie knew the words weren’t for Crawley, but for him.

Crawley came, bucking hard into Luca as he hissed a stream of obscenities. When he pulled out, his cock was bloody all the way to the root. He wiped himself off on Luca’s hair as though it were a rag.

Bile rose in Robbie’s throat. He retched violently. The gag was pulled away and he heaved, stomach turning itself inside out.

“You’ll be cleaning that,” said Crawley as he refastened his breeches.

Luca lay where Crawley had left him. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of his ribs, Robbie might’ve thought he was dead.

When Crawley grabbed Luca’s arm, Robbie thought for a horrible moment that it was going to start again. But no, the man simply tossed him to the floor.

“No dogs or barbarians on the bed, toy. You know the rules.”

Luca stirred, coughing weakly. He tried to push himself up on his elbows, collapsed, then pushed himself up again.

Robbie realized belatedly that Crawley’s friends weren’t holding him anymore. They’d gone to speak to Crawley, holding murmured conference by the doorway. Slowly, not wanting to draw their attention, Robbie shuffled to Luca on his knees.

There were so many things Robbie wanted to say. _I’m sorry, please don’t hate me_. And also _I’m sorry, please hate me. I deserve it_, _I couldn’t make him stop._ But all he could get out was Luca’s name, over and over, like a prayer.

Luca managed to get up on his hands, swaying with the effort. With a last burst of strength, he threw his arms around Robbie’s neck.

“Promise you won’t forget me?” he whispered, his voice cracked and broken.

Robbie shook his head.

“Never, sweetheart, not in a million years, I’ll find you, I swear—”

“Well, isn’t this a touching scene,” Crawley drawled.

Luca had just enough time, before Crawley brought the whip down, to whisper, “Robbie, Robbie, I love you forever.”

Crawley only had to land a few lashes; Luca passed out almost at once. Crawley tossed the whip onto the bed and gestured to one of his friends. The man picked Luca up (so light, Robbie knew; like holding a shadow) and carried him from the room.

“Where are you taking him?” Robbie shouted, straining against his bonds. “Leave him alone!”

Crawley kicked Robbie in the balls. He doubled over, groaning.

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you, rat?”

Crawley crouched down. He grabbed a fistful of Robbie’s hair and yanked his head up.

“What a mess you’ve found yourself in. I suppose I can’t blame you. A guttersnipe like you with a boy like that? My gods, it must’ve seemed like Ganymene himself had blessed you with his favor. If it’s any consolation, far better men than you have lost their heads over that tight little ass.”

He chuckled.

“Well, not so tight anymore…”

Robbie gathered a mouthful of blood and spat it square in Crawley’s face. The blow that earned him was enough to make his vision go white and red.

“Just for that, I think I’ll call the Watch after all,” said Crawley softly. “After I dispose of my toy, of course.”

He laughed at Robbie’s expression.

“That’s right, rat. Don’t worry, I’ll make it slow. Just for you.”

Crawley leaned in, close enough for his mustache to tickle Robbie’s ear.

“That deceitful little leg-spreading barbarian whore will die by inches with a cock up its ass and you to thank.”

Robbie didn’t even bother to brace himself for the blow that followed. He barely felt it anyway. As he slid into unconsciousness, all he could think was that he had failed Luca so badly in the end.

When Robbie woke, it was dark. That didn’t mean anything except that Crawley had the lamps put out before he left. There were no windows in the room where Luca was kept. No way to keep track of the hours, the seasons. Luca had only known what time of year it was because Robbie told him. He brought Luca red leaves in autumn, flowers in spring. One winter he smuggled in a snowball. Luca had never seen snow before. He cupped it in his hands and watched it melt like a child entranced by a magic trick.

Robbie forced himself to start working on his tied hands. This was something Harrow used to make him practice, slipping out of bonds. It wasn’t easy, tied as tightly as he was; he ended up having to dislocate his thumb. He was undoing the ropes around his feet when the door swung open.

Robbie staggered up, hands already curling into fists—but it was only Aunt Mina. When she saw him, her hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh, Robbie—your _face_—”

She tried to hug him, but he cringed away, in too much pain to be touched.

“What were you _thinking_, you reckless boy? His lordship’s pleasure slave? Scald the land, Robbie! D’you want to end up swinging from a noose?”

“I love him,” Robbie mumbled.

He hated how weak he sounded. How like a child.

Aunt Mina sighed.

“Oh, Robbie. I know you think you do, but—well, he’s not a proper person, love. He can’t feel the way real people can. I’m sure he told you different,” she said over Robbie’s objections, “I’m sure he said a lot of pretty things, but he’s like one of those birds that can be taught to talk. They don’t know what they’re saying, not really.”

“_No_. He is a real person, he’s the realest person I’ve ever met. You don’t know him, you don’t know anything, you don’t—” He broke off, chest heaving. “I have to find him. Crawley said—he said he was going to kill him—”

Aunt Mina shook him.

“Robbie, it’s done. The boy is dead.”

The words didn’t make sense. Robbie’s head was throbbing. It hurt to think. Hurt to breathe.

Aunt Mina was talking, faster and faster.

“—_Robbie_, listen to me. You have to go before Crawley comes back with the Watch. He’ll have you arrested. It’s a crime, what you did, do you understand?”

She pressed something into Robbie’s hand. His leather purse. The almost-hundred crowns.

“You need a doctor, love. Use the money. I’ve added a little of my own. All I can.” She smiled ruefully. “Once his lordship finds out I’ve helped you escape, I’ll be turned out without reference enough to empty chamber pots.”

That thought pierced the fog. Robbie knew what Aunt Mina’s position meant to her. She’d scraped and clawed to get out of Docktown and talked her way into service. She took such pride in her smart uniform, her ring of keys, the housekeeper’s trust. And now Robbie had ruined that, just like he ruined everything.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Mina,” he whispered.

“None of that, now.” She took his face in her hands, so gently that it almost didn’t hurt. “I’ll never regret taking you in, putting you through school. The first one in our family to learn his letters!”

She beamed at him with so much love and pride that Robbie ached.

“But now you have to run. Go to Harrow. He’s the only one who can protect you.”

Aunt Mina laughed bleakly.

“Gods harken at your daughter! Sending you to the man I’ve been trying to keep you away from since the day you were born. If this isn’t a turn up for the books.”

By the time Robbie got to Docktown, the fever had set in. One of the wounds was already infected. Probably more than one. His body was too exhausted to fight anymore.

He didn’t how he found his way to Harrow. When he arrived, he was raving. The last thing he remembered was a terrified whore staring at him as he shouted for his mother.

Robbie slid back into consciousness in stages. First he became aware of the pounding in his head. Then the smell of opium and cheap perfume, mingled with something musky. Harrow’s aftershave.

With effort, Robbie slit his eyes open. Harrow was sprawled in the chair by the bed. He’d been counting the contents of the leather purse. Robbie saw stacks of gold crowns winking on the bedside table.

“You’ve been saving all your winnings, I see,” said Harrow. “What for?”

It took a few tries for Robbie to get his voice to work.

“A boy.”

Harrow laughed.

“If you wanted a boy, I could’ve hired you one. Still have your cherry, do you? Ah, don’t look at me like that,” he said, meeting Robbie’s expression of hatred with a grin. “Practically your father, aren’t I? Fanny even thought I might be, before you came out with that shock of red hair.”

“Where is she?”

“Fucked if I know. She owes me money. When Fanny goes to ground, you can’t ferret her out with a brace of hounds.”

He rolled a crown between thumb and forefinger.

“Mina sent word you’re in trouble. And if Mina stoops so low as to talk to the likes of us, it must be bad trouble indeed. You cross a lord?”

Robbie nodded. It hurt.

“No wonder you’re in such rough shape. You’re in the market for protection, I take it?” He weighed the purse in his hand. “This should cover it. Just.”

_So much for being practically my father, _Robbie thought.

“There’s something else,” Robbie managed to croak out. “The lord. Crawley. He had a—pleasure slave. He said—he said he had him k-killed, but—” _But I can still feel him inside of me every time I breathe_. “Can you find him?”

“I can find anyone, save your scheming mother. Question is, how are you going to pay for it?”

Robbie was going to pay for it by fighting, of course. That was Harrow’s plan all along. That’s why he brought the doctor to bind Robbie’s cracked rib, set his thumb, sew up the gashes on his face and back. The doctor gave Robbie an injection to chase out the infection. There was nothing that could be done about his broken nose, but that was no great loss; Robbie’s nose had been broken before. Besides, Harrow didn’t want him for his looks.

Harrow came in after the doctor left. Robbie knew at once that the news was bad. Still, he forced himself to ask.

“You found him?”

“I talked to a fellow who runs a fuckhouse by the wharf,” said Harrow. “Name of Jorin. A lord brought him a pleasure slave. A barbarian. Said the boy had been spreading for another man. Paid three hundred crowns to have him killed.”

The doctor had given Robbie something for the pain that slowed the world. Harrow’s words took a long time to reach him. When they did, Robbie was so numb he barely felt them pierce his chest.

“So he’s dead, then?”

Harrow nodded.

“Jorin knows his work. He says your boy’s dead, he’s dead.”

Robbie would always divide his life into two distinct chapters. There was before Luca’s death, and there was after. It was easiest to think of that dividing line as being like the one between life and death. With Luca, Robbie had been alive. Now he had died without the relief of being dead.

The numbness that set in the night Luca died never really went away. Robbie supposed he should be grateful; it was simpler to follow Harrow’s orders now that he couldn’t feel. Especially when Harrow started using him for business outside the ring.

Robbie killed a man Harrow wanted killed and felt nothing. That same night he lost his virginity to a boy whose face he forgot as soon as it was over. Robbie had some idea that Harrow had arranged it, but he pushed that thought away.

There was another boy waiting in his room after the next killing. Robbie kicked him out with nothing more than a few harsh words for his trouble.

Harrow didn’t send any more whores after that, but he made sure Robert had opportunities to find willing bedmates. It wasn’t difficult. Docktown was full of boys who wanted to brag that they’d been fucked by Harrow’s best fighter. Sex didn’t make Robbie feel anything, but at least it was a different sort of emptiness.

Robbie did feel something when Aunt Mina died of pneumonia, shivering to death on the poorhouse floor. But even that grief was like hearing the echo of a song after the music had faded. He scraped together enough money to have her buried in a graveyard a little beyond the border of the butcher’s district. She deserved to escape Docktown in death, at least.

Then Robbie went out and found a boy and brought him back to his room and fucked him and didn’t think of Luca.

Robbie knew that if he was brave, he’d follow Luca into death. He’d killed enough men by now to understand how simple it would be. A noose, a knife. Opium. Arsenic. People offed themselves in Docktown all the time. His would just be another body floating in Marlebone Quay.

But suicide would be too easy. Too clean. Robbie knew enough about the sort of place where Luca had been taken, the sort of death Crawley would have bought, to know that his end had been neither. If he met Luca in whatever afterlife awaited slaves and murderers, Robbie couldn’t tell him that he’d sought a quick release from pain when Luca had been granted no such escape.

Surviving was Robbie’s punishment.

A year after, a man came to Docktown to buy Robbie. He arrived in a hired carriage that was ostentatious in its anonymity. Hansoms didn’t cross into Docktown unless they were paid an extortionist amount of money by a highly motivated individual. He might as well have ridden in on a zebra.

Robbie watched his arrival from Harrow’s roof, where he was stretched out in the sun with a book and a cigarette. It didn’t surprise him that this man, whoever he was, had come to Docktown to do business with Harrow. Robbie'd learned quick that the only differences between criminals and rich men were semantic.

It did surprise him when one of Harrow’s girls stuck her head out of the window and called that Robbie was wanted in Harrow’s office. He closed his book, using the dog-end of the cigarette as a placeholder, and climbed back inside.

“Is it a job?” he asked.

The girl shook her head. Her name was Nancy; Robbie liked her. She liked him, too. All the girls did. He never went after them for freebies.

“This fellow’s something else,” she said. “Teddy offers him pick of the ladies, but he won’t so much as look, so Teddy offers to send for a lad, but isn’t having that either.” She rolled her eyes. “Very superior way he’s got about him. Like he thinks speaking for money makes him a gentleman.”

They were walking down the hallway; approaching Harrow’s office, they dropped their voices.

“So you think he speaks for money but hasn’t got it himself?” Robbie asked.

“Nah, he’s a go-between,” said Nancy decidedly. “But an important one, from the way he throws his weight around. So don’t get smart with him, you hear?”

When he entered Harrow’s office, Robbie saw at once what Nancy meant. The man was tall and trim, with smooth black hair parted so cleanly he might’ve used a razor and a level. His clothes were simple, but exquisitely tailored. Robbie noted that although he’d removed his hat, his hands were still sheathed in thin leather gloves.

When the man saw Robbie, he did a double take.

“This is the boy? Father of Hosts, he truly is the spitting image.”

Robbie didn’t like the way the man was looking at him. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Spitting image of who?”

The man arched a perfectly plucked brow.

“Your father.”

Robbie stared at him. He was so used to mention of his father being prelude to an insult that he seemed incapable of formulating a response that didn’t involve violence.

“Robbie, Mr. Tolliver here works for a very important man,” said Harrow. “His employer’s taken an interest. Wants to meet you. Understand?”

“No,” said Robbie, setting his jaw.

“Could you give us a moment, Mr. Tolliver?” Harrow said, narrowing his eyes at Robbie. “I need to have a word.”

“Certainly.”

Tolliver withdrew with a solicitous little bow. Robbie was still trying to decide whether or not it was sarcastic when Harrow smacked him.

“Ow!” Robbie pressed his hand to his ringing ear. “The fuck was that for?”

Harrow smacked his other ear.

“Stupidity, that’s what. D’you not have the least idea what’s going on?”

“No,” Robbie muttered.

“And here’s me thinking you’d fared better in the brains department than your parents. That toffee-nosed twat who just posted out of here on the stick up his ass is going to change your fortunes, my lad.”

Robbie was about to retort that he didn’t want his fortunes changed. Then he thought of Aunt Mina, who’d wanted nothing else. The lilies he’d planted by her grave would be flowering now.

“Does he really know my father?” Robbie asked.

“Knew him,” said Harrow. “He’s dead.”

“Oh.”

Robbie supposed he ought to feel something. People did, didn’t they, for their fathers? But he’d only met the man a handful of times when he was too little to remember much. Robbie knew that he and his father had the same red hair and gray eyes, and the same name. He had a dim memory of a strange-looking stuffed animal being pressed into his hands. _An elephant_, his father had called it. As soon as he was gone, Fanny took the toy away to sell.

“We haven’t seen hide or hair of Fanny in ages,” said Harrow, as though he could read Robbie’s mind. “Best to think of yourself as an orphan now.”

Robbie’s arms were still crossed over his chest. He realized now that he was holding himself too tightly. A vulnerable posture, not a threatening one. He dropped his hands.

“Say I agree to go with the twat,” Robbie said. “Where’s he going to take me?”

Harrow grinned.

“All the way to the top, my lad. All the way to the top.”

Gracegarden Hill was the highest point in Lyonesse. It had loomed in the corner of Robbie’s eye for most of his life. Crawley lived at the foot of the hill; during heavy rains, sewage would overflow from the houses of the more important lords above, run down the slope, and ruin the gardens. Robbie always enjoyed watching Crawley’s resulting tantrum, even if it was usually him mucking out the rosebushes.

Tolliver stopped the cab at the foot of Gracegarden. Another carriage was waiting for them—not a hired hansom but a lord’s private box. There was a silver crest on the side. Robert knew he had seen it before. The memory came to him of a silver lighter, its flame catching the end of his father’s cigarette alight.

The carriage-horses were chestnut. Robbie was startled to see that they had gray eyes.

“My lord’s family has had them specially bred for generations,” said Tolliver, settling into the seat across from Robbie. “There are no others with this coloring in all of Solas.”

The horses must’ve been bred for strength as well as color. The climb up the hill was steeper than Robbie had imagined. Through the window, the world tipped almost vertical. He found himself gripping the leather handle on the inside of the door.

The hill went up and up. Every time they passed a beautifully-appointed manor, Robbie thought _We’ll stop now_, but every time they passed by. Harrow’s words came back to him: _All the way to the top, my lad_. Surely he hadn’t meant it literally?

But it seemed he had. They reached the crest of the hill and leveled out. A manor came into view.

No, not a manor. A castle.

“Lightcliffe Hall,” said Tolliver, so smug Robbie would’ve thought he’d built the thing himself. “It’s older even than the King’s seat at Highcourt. At the right time of day, you can see the shimmer of the sea breaking on the horizon from the westward windows.”

_He talks about the house like he’s fucking it_, Robbie thought.

Still, when the great doors opened and Robbie was shown into a marble foyer so vast his footsteps echoed, he had to admit that he was a little impressed. Not that he would ever tell Tolliver.

Robbie was taken through halls as high and clean and cold as funeral chambers. A silent servant followed them. He was dressed in the same black and silver livery as the horses. There should be more servants, Robbie thought, in a house this size. But Lightcliffe was like a hive in winter, when all the bees were asleep.

“Where is everyone?” Robbie asked, not expecting an answer. He wasn’t surprised when Tolliver ignored him.

Robbie was taken to the biggest bathroom he’d ever seen and directed to wash. He hesitated for a moment, expecting Tolliver to leave, but the man stood politely waiting.

“Alfred can take your clothes and your effects,” said Tolliver when Robbie didn’t move. Then, with a tight smile, “I suppose it’s safe to assume that you have weapons on your person?”

Robbie stiffened, then forced himself to relax. The lord hadn’t summoned him all the way to the top of Gracegarden just to have him murdered in a fancy bathroom. If he wanted Robbie dead, that would’ve been far easier to arrange in Docktown. Hell, Harrow probably would’ve done it himself for the right price.

Anyway, if either of these soft-handed lackeys came at him, Robbie wouldn’t need a weapon to dispatch them. Nowadays he could find the weak spot in a man’s neck as easy as shaking his hand. They’d be dead before they hit the marble floor.

Still, taking off his knives was a nakedness far worse than merely being stripped of his clothes. Arm wrap, belt sheath, shoulder sheath, both boots, the small of his back. Robbie had strapped all his metal on that morning by habit; only now, seeing his knives piled on the tray, did he realize how many there were.

Belatedly, he remembered the book still tucked in his jerkin. He laid it carefully to the side of the pile.

“Is that all?” said Tolliver blandly. “Are you sure that you don’t have another knife squirreled away somewhere? I would hate for it to rust.”

Robbie glared at him.

“I want that book back.”

“Curious that you show more concern for your book than your armory.”

Robbie shrugged.

“Books are harder to come by.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” said Tolliver, “where you’re from.”

Robbie decided that he hated Tolliver.

He could get used to taking baths like this, though. The water was sinfully hot, as though it was piped in from some vast kettle under the palace. There were bars of scented soap and about a hundred little vials full of stuff that Robbie supposed was soap that had been melted down.

Tolliver seemed amused by the vials Robbie selected to wash with. He must’ve chosen wrong, then.

Robbie felt a surge of anger. These noble houses, with all their stupid rules that had to be learned without ever being taught! Deliberately, he turned his back to Tolliver and began to scrub himself down.

“What an extraordinary number of scars you have,” Tolliver remarked.

“Where I’m from,” said Robbie, “they’re even easier to come by than knives.”

He heard Tolliver chuckle.

Once he’d rinsed the last of the sweet-smelling soap out of his hair, Robbie hoisted himself out of the bath. Tolliver tossed him a towel; Robbie caught it.

“You’re left-handed,” Tolliver observed as Robbie dried himself.

“So?” Then, after thinking for a moment, “Was my father?”

Tolliver nodded.

“As are all the men in my lordship’s family.”

Robbie was still trying to decipher Tolliver’s tone when the servant reappeared with a neatly-folded stack of clothes. Not the clothes Robbie had arrived in, but the sort of quality togs that the highest servants wore. Kidskin breeches with white stockings, a silk jacquard waistcoat and a shirt with pearly little buttons. Linen underthings so fine they felt like the brush of soft lips against his skin.

Robbie shook himself. It was being back in a lord’s house that made him think of Luca. But that was the road down which madness lay. Robbie turned his back to it, as deliberately as he had to Tolliver.

Tolliver had to help him dress. There were too many little buttons, fastenings, clasps and ties and bugger all. These sorts of clothes were designed for someone else to put you into—and, Robbie realized, they’d require someone else to release you from. He wondered what it must feel like to be so secure in your power that you left yourself vulnerable by design.

Once he was dressed, Tolliver took Robbie back through the labyrinth of corridors. There seemed to be some urgency now in their pace. As he hurried Robbie along, Tolliver kept up a rapid-fire barrage of directions.

“His lordship will speak to you; only speak back if asked a direct question. Keep your answers simple, truthful, and to the point. He will know if you are lying. Make no mention of your recent employment. Make no mention of your mother. If you smoke, he will have you beaten. If you use foul language, he will have you beaten. If you blow your nose—”

“Will he have me beaten?”

They arrived in front of a set of double doors, twice as high and wide as Robbie. Tolliver turned to him with a tight smile.

“Good. You’re learning.”

Then the doors opened and Robbie was ushered into his lordship’s study.

Lord Robert Argent was not a large man, though he carried himself as though he had once been tall. Now he walked on legs that Robbie could tell were twisted even under the elegant lines of his trousers. He was old and white-haired and leaning heavily on a cane, and yet he seemed to fill the room, as vast and coldly imposing as the statue of Charles the Conqueror in Bromley Square.

Robbie bowed as deeply as the stiffness in his spine would allow.

“Stand up, boy. Let me look at you.”

Robbie straightened. The hard silver-gray eyes that met his were mirror-images of his own.

“Like the dead come back to life, my lord,” said Tolliver softly.

Lord Argent’s mouth twisted.

“I don’t place my hopes for House Argent in the power of necromancy, Tolliver. Or heredity, for that matter. My late son cured me of that folly.”

He flicked his fingers at a servant out of Robbie’s line of sight. A book pressed into Robbie’s hands—a primer; he remembered them from school. He’d taught Luca to read from one. (_Don’t think of Luca_.)

“Read aloud until I tell you to stop,” Lord Argent ordered, settling onto thronelike chair.

Robbie obeyed, trying to ignore the flush of humiliation that rose in his cheeks. Stupid to mind; it wasn’t as though anybody in Docktown had their letters. Certainly nobody Robbie knew would even be able to read a baby book like this one. Of course a lord could hardly expect more of a hired tough who swaggered into Gracegarden with enough steel on him to forge a bridge. This wasn’t an insult; it was a test. Harrow liked tests, too.

Robbie only got a few sentences in before the primer was replaced with another book. Argent allowed him to read almost a paragraph before that too was exchanged. And so on and so on, each book changed out for something more difficult, until finally Robbie was given a heavy gilt-edged volume full of words so long that his tongue tripped over them.

“That’s enough,” said Argent, and the book was taken away. “Now tell me about the Battle of Furness Peak.”

After Robbie gave what he thought was a rather good summary, especially given that he’d been out of school for a year, Argent had him describe how water became steam. Then he was given a series of logic puzzles, progressively trickier. There was one Robbie couldn’t finish, which annoyed him. The servant had to almost tear the stylus out of his hands. Robbie thought he saw Argent and Tolliver exchange approving looks.

Finally, Argent waved the servant away. He withdrew a book from his waistcoat—Robbie’s book, the one he’d given up only for a promise he’d get it back. Robbie shot Tolliver a look of betrayal, which was met with a bland smile.

“I see you’ve made notes in the margins,” said Argent, his brittle fingers flicking deftly through the pages. “Is that a habit of yours?”

Robbie shrugged stiffly.

“I like to remember what I think as I read, my lord.”

“Not all of these notes are in your hand.” Argent stopped on a page, tapping Luca’s precise, careful letters with a fingertip. “This book was shared in order to be discussed.”

Robbie clenched his jaw so tight he thought his teeth would break. If Argent didn’t give the book back, Robbie would kill him.

“Yes, my lord.”

Argent made a thoughtful hum.

“Do you like discussing books? Ideas?”

“Yes, my lord.” Not that he’d had anyone to do it with since Luca died. “When I can.”

“No, I don’t suppose you have much opportunity in—what do they call it, Tolliver?—dock’s town.”

Argent motioned to a servant, who brought him a neat sheaf of documents. Robbie could read them upside-down. His school records.

“You attended a charity school in Coventry, where your fees were paid by a Wilhelmina Blackpot. Your aunt?”

Robbie wasn’t sure whether acknowledging Aunt Mina counted as mentioning his mother. He risked a nod.

“Speak, boy.”

“Yes, my lord. Aunt Mina paid my fees. She—” Robbie swallowed around the lump in her throat. “She never had the chance to get her letters, see, so it meant more to her than anything that—”

“I don’t care,” said Argent flatly, leafing through the records. “You were ten when you were enrolled at the Coventry School for Poor Boys, fifteen when you left. The instruction of common children is not my area, but Tolliver tells me that you learned a great deal in a very short time. Indeed, I am told that there was little else such a school could teach you. The headmaster avows that you were the brightest pupil of his career. As a result, Tolliver feels you are highly educable. Do you agree with this assessment?”

“I like to learn, my lord.”

“Not quite the same thing, is it? Do you drink?”

The change in topic was so abrupt it took Robbie a moment to catch up.

“No, my lord.”

“Take nepenthe?”

“No, my lord.”

“Visit prostitutes?”

“_No_.” Robbie knew he’d spoken too loudly; he saw the flash of warning in Tolliver’s eyes. “No, my lord, I don’t go to whores. I don’t need to pay for it.”

Tolliver made a small noise of pain.

“Well, well,” Argent said, steepling his fingers. “I see you’ve inherited your father’s arrogance.”

It was the first time Argent had mentioned his father. Robbie didn’t have time to figure out whether it was a good sign or a bad one before the questioning continued.

“This criminal Harrow. Are you his man?”

“I’m my own man.”

“Good answer. Tolliver tells me that you only go with boys. Is that true?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you think of girls at all?”

“Never, my lord.”

Argent nodded. To himself, he muttered, “No more little accidents.” Then, abruptly: “I suppose by now you’ve realized that I am your grandfather?”

Robbie had been wondering whether Argent was going to bring it up. He began to nod, then remembered that he was supposed to speak.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you understand what that means?" Argent demanded. "The sort of lineage you descend from? The royal blood that runs in your veins?”

Robbie thought about lying, but he was fairly certain Argent could read his mind.

“No, my lord,” he admitted.

Agent sighed.

“Tolliver, fetch the tree.”

The family tree was in a golden frame as high as Robbie was tall, carried by two sweating footmen. Tolliver handed Argent a telescoping rod. He extended it to its full length with a flourish.

“We shall start from the root,” said Argent, pointing at the base of the tree. “Here you see King Roland and Queen Jehanne. They had two children, Charles and Margery.”

The tip of the rod lingered over Margery’s name.

“My wife, bless her memory," said Argent quietly. "She was my first cousin; my father was Roland’s brother. Father of Hosts, if Margery could see what’s become of our line…”

He shook his head, lips thinning to a grim slash.

“King Charles, my brother-in-law, married Aelinor of Ermin. They begat King Edmund, who begat King Ademar, may he rule for a thousand years.”

The rod returned to Argent’s branch of the tree. _Robert Argent II _was a lone offshoot; no wife, no children. Argent tapped the empty space below Robbie’s father’s name.

“That makes Charles the Conqueror your great-uncle and His Majesty your cousin by blood. Your grandmother was a princess; your great-grandfather was a king. Now do you understand?”

Robbie tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Fields of buggered boiling hell, he was a member of the royal family. What would Aunt Mina say? He heard her voice echoing from memory: _If this isn’t a turn up for the books! _

“I understand,” Robbie said.

Argent stood abruptly and began, to the extent that he was able, to pace.

“I’ll cut to the chase, then. Your father, my son Robert, has died—in a singularly wanton and stupid fashion, I might add—leaving me without an heir. Should I pass without naming one, all this—” His gesture took in the castle entire, and the view beyond— “along with my seat in the Council, will go to my cousin Mountbatten. I do not care for my cousin; I care for his son Francis even less. It would shame me to have my line come to such an end, even beyond the shame your father has already brought this family.”

As Argent spoke, Robbie fit his feet into the interleaved blocks of the parquet floor._ Like a puzzle_, he thought. The floor and its owner both.

Aloud, he said, “How did my father die?”

Argent stopped short.

“How dare you ask me that.”

Robbie took a deep breath.

“Look, m’lord, it’s like this. For all you say I’ve got royal blood, I’m still a bastard. My mother was a whore. I’ve five years at a charity school, which doesn’t mean much in Docktown and I wager means even less in Gracegarden. I fight for money. I kill men for money. Whatever you want from me, you might as well come out and say. Where I’m from—” And he looked at Tolliver now— “we make our deals straight.”

There was a long silence in which Robbie had ample time to reflect that a man like Argent probably kept an assassin in the wings to dispatch visitors who spoke out of turn. Then Argent sighed so deeply that he seemed to diminish, as though all the air had gone out of him.

“It was a rhinoceros,” he said.

“My lord?”

“The Kharati ambassador gave King Ademar a rhinoceros for his menagerie. Your father, drunk and in disreputable company, snuck into its enclosure for a joke and was gored to death.”

“Fuck,” Robert breathed. Then, “Sorry, my lord, I know I’m not supposed to swear.”

“Your manners leave worlds to be desired.”

The words were cold, but there was a slight tug at the corner of Argent’s mouth. If Robert didn’t know any better, he’d say the old man was trying not to smile.

“So, here we find ourselves. I need an heir. And you, son of my son, are far too bright to go to waste in the gutter.”

Lord Argent had a plan. Robbie was beginning to appreciate that his grandfather probably always had a plan. He would make Robbie his ward; that was simple enough. What would be far more complicated was training Robbie to be a gentleman. His Docktown accent would need to be eradicated; his nose would have to be fixed. He would have lessons in languages, horsemanship, and swordplay. (Robbie’s ears pricked up at that; he’d used a shortsword, of course, but never one of the long, elegant epees nobles used to fence with, or the sabers they took to war.) He would have to learn how to speak, how to carry himself, how to address both his betters and his inferiors. There were codes and protocols; finer points of etiquette; rules of conduct, written and not. He would learn them all.

Robbie could see a number of ways in which this plan could fall apart, not the least of which being that he was a chronic ruiner (of lives, of people, of everything that mattered). He couldn’t be trusted not to fuck this up as well.

The more immediate problem was Crawley.

“He knows who I am, you see,” Robbie explained to Argent. “He knows about—well, my mother.”

But of course Argent had a plan for that, too.

“Tomorrow morning with his breakfast, Lord Crawley will receive assignment to our diplomatic outpost in Irjivi,” said Argent crisply. “A promotion of sorts; certainly he won’t have reason to complain. Of course, the indefinite term of the assignment may give him pause, but a man of his ambitions will doubtless see the advantages such a posting will offer.”

Argent cleared his throat.

“There is the small matter of the warrant out for the arrest of his servant, Robbie Blackpot, on charges of felony vandalism. Apparently the boy interfered with a pleasure slave.”

Robbie’s mouth went dry.

“Um. I can explain.”

Lord Argent waved his hand.

“It will be taken care of.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“No more pleasure slaves.”

“No, my lord.”

“Nasty things,” Argent muttered, half to himself. “Should you need…release of that kind, Tolliver will bring one of the household boys.”

“I don’t fuck slaves,” Robbie blurted. “Sorry, I don’t—um, do that. With slaves. Crawley, he made a mistake. I was—it wasn’t what he thought.”

Argent raised a steel-gray eyebrow, but pointedly offered no comment. He waved a hand at Tolliver, who bowed crisply and gestured for Robbie to follow him.

“Oh, and one more thing,” said Argent. “Tolliver tells me that you call yourself Robbie.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I don’t care for diminutives. You’ll be Robert from now on.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a graphic-ish(?) description of murder and attempted suicide.

Robert woke with the worst hangover of his life. His head felt like it had been slammed repeatedly into the floor.

He rolled over and groaned into his pillow.

At the back of his mind niggled the feeling that he’d left a vital task undone. There was something he was forgetting, something he urgently needed to remember.

Then it all came flooding back—Adrian, the Harlequin, _Luca. _

Robert kicked off the covers and flung himself out of bed. He was wearing his breeches but nothing else; last night’s clothes were in a reeking heap by the door. An experimental sniff confirmed that Robert smelled at least as bad. Cigarettes, liquor, semen. Like the back end of Bacchanal. They’d never let him into the Harlequin like this.

Right. Wash first.

Robert scrubbed himself down so quickly that he nearly scalded his skin off. He dried one-handed while elbowing the closet door open. Where was that damned suit of clothes Argent had Tolliver buy for when Robert accompanied him to Highcourt? Ah, shoved in the corner, of course. Robert pulled it on so quickly that he forgot his drawers and had to take off everything and start again.

Once he was dressed, his hair tied hastily back, Robert ransacked the nooks and crannies of his room for the money he'd hoarded there. Argent was always deliberately stingy with Robert’s allowance, giving him only what he needed to keep up appearances with the other students of his station, but Robert was willing to forgo certain nonessentials if it meant having a reserve that his grandfather didn’t know about.

The real question was how much to take to Paradiso. He knew only a little more now about what pleasure slaves went for than he did when he was fifteen. Twenty thousand crowns, Crawley’s friend had been willing to offer for Luca. Robert only had about nine to hand, and gods knew Luca must be worth far more now.

He’d take it all, then. Perhaps Luca’s owner would be willing to accept it as a down payment.

Robert clattered down the stairs to the common room he shared with Val and Hugo. The maid had already been by; there was a hot pot of coffee and a basket of pastries. Val was sitting at the table in his threadbare dressing gown, poring over a textbook. When he saw Robert, he dropped his pen.

“Fitz? I didn’t expect to see you up for ages! Val says Bagsley and Hale found you in a gutter in Paradiso and put you in a cab back to school. You were passed out on the steps when he got in this morning. He thought you were dead, but then you threw up. I was so worried when he told me! You never go to Paradiso, _and _you’re on probation. The Dean could send you down if he find out. What _happened?_”

While Val spoke, Robert wolfed down a pastry and washed it down with coffee. _Oh, _lovely. Lovely coffee. Robert blessed the hand that brewed it.

“Adrian happened,” he said, not untruthfully. “Yes, I know, I _know_. Look, it’s difficult to explain, but I have to go back to Paradiso and I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. Can you cover for me in International Law this afternoon?”

“But—”

“Val.”

“But—”

“_Val_.”

“Fine,” Val sighed. “But please, Fitz, do try to show up. If Tilney reports your absence to the Dean—”

“Yes, mother.” Robert ruffled Val’s hair affectionately, knowing full well that he hated it. “If you run into B and H, tell them I’m good for the cab.”

Val pulled away, muttering something about not being anyone’s mother. The back of his neck was pink.

Paradiso the morning after Bacchanal was a sacked city. Trash littered the streets , gutters running over with waterlogged streamers and vomit. Broken glass glittered like stars between the cobblestones.Robert passed a statue of a long-dead Minister of Finance whose unfortunately positioned hand had been pressed into obscene service the night before. At its feet, two dogs wrestled over a spent firecracker. 

The Harlequin rose from the waste, a pink stone palazzo flying a banner patterned with black and white diamonds. If not for the thick shutters locked over the windows, it might’ve looked like a rich man’s townhouse.

Robert made a safe bet that there would be no one manning the front doors this early. He skirted around the side, looking for the service entrance. A rat ran over his foot; he kicked it away without flinching. Remarkable how easy it was to readjust to squalor. Like he’d never even really left.

It only took five minutes of concerted pounding before the service door swung open. A bleary-eyed house slave stood in the shadows, blinking at him. Robert pushed his way inside, ignoring the man’s protests.

“Yes, yes, I know the doors don’t open until evening. I have urgent business with your master. No, I am afraid it can’t wait. That’s what ‘urgent’ means.”

“What is the meaning of this?”

Robert looked down the hallway to see the eunuch striding towards him. Recognizing Robert, he stopped short. His obeisance was fumbled, inelegant.

“My lord, I beg you, forgive your slave—”

Robert made a gesture he’d seen Argent use with his slaves, an upward flick. The eunuch stood immediately, regaining some of his composure as he rose.

He turned to the house slave, kneeling now and staring with wide-eyed confusion, and hissed, “Get Sark. Wake the master. Do it _now_.”

There were, Robert had to admit, certain advantages to being Lord Argent’s ward.

The eunuch bowed him down a warren of narrow corridors. Robert had known, of course, that slave-brothels had no windows (like the room where Crawley kept Luca, an airless box of misery without escape or respite), but he’d never considered how gloomy the interior would be in daytime. He thought that the eunuch’s eyes must’ve adjusted like a bat’s after years of being trapped in this murky half-light.

The eunuch brought him through a set of double doors, plain on one side and gilded on the other. This must be the part of the building where clients were taken. Robert had a vague memory of the grand staircase, the marble foyer. Sober, it all looked rather seedy. A caricature of luxury that worked only in reference to the real thing.

Robert took good look at that thought and had to stifle a laugh. Gods, harken at him! Robert Fitzrobert, whoreson, turning up his nose at brothel décor? Tolliver would be delighted.

Unsurprisingly, the pimp’s office was the most lavish and tasteless room of them all. The corner was given over to a hulking beast of a music box . From the number of cylinder cases, it seemed that the pimp had collected every popular opera from the last twenty years. He must’ve spent a king’s ransom. The collection of sherry on the sideboard was top-shelf as well.

Robert thought of the bare corridors the eunuch had shown him through, with their rat-chewed plaster and peeled-up floorboards. Apparently the pimp’s comfort came before that of the slaves who’d made him his fortune.

Robert became aware that the eunuch was still hovering anxiously on the edge of the room.

“You slave begs forgiveness, lord, that the house is without suitable refreshment this morning. Would my lord care for a drink, perhaps?”

The man's fluttering gesture of apology dredged up a memory from last night. Those elegant fingers wrapped around Robert’s cock.

Robert was spared having to answer the eunuch’s question by the arrival of the fattest man he’d ever seen. There was so much of him that Robert had to take him in by stages: the purple slippers, the canary yellow dressing-gown, the many quivering chins. His wig had clearly been put on with some haste. When he bowed, it slipped over his forehead.

“My lord. I am Gregori Boq, the proprietor of the establishment. Welcome to the Harlequin. Or should I say, welcome back?”

Robert had ample time, in the carriage ride over, to decide how he wanted to play this. He summoned a self-deprecating smile, equal parts smug and sheepish.

“Yes, I’m afraid I made rather a fool of myself last night. The wine, you know.”

“Of course, my lord. It happens to the best of us.”

“Indeed. And as I wasn’t able to, ah, to complete the performance, I was hoping that I might have another chance with the boy.”

Boq and the eunuch exchanged a look that Robert couldn’t decipher, but which made him distinctly uneasy.

“Now, my lord?”

“Yes, now,” said Robert, letting impatience show in his voice. This was how Argent got things done; he made his lessers jump for him.

Boq licked his lips. Nervous. But why?

“My lord wouldn’t, ah, perhaps consider taking another boy in his place? The morning after Bacchanal, you understand, the Golden Bird will hardly be at his best."

_What would Francis say?_ He’d whine, of course, whine and make demands and all but stamp his foot. Robert let his face fall into lines of petty, entitled demand.

“How dare you barter with me. I want the boy I want. The Golden Bird, as you call him. The one who played Ganymene. I’ll have that boy and no other.”

To seal the deal, Robert took his bulging wallet from his cloak. Carelessly, he tossed three hundred-crown pieces on the desk.

“That should cover it, I think.”

Luca was shaken awake by rough hands. There was a man over him; he spread his legs on instinct, gasping for breath. There hadn’t been air in the dream, he’d been drowning, or no, not drowning, choking, fingers wrapped around his throat, pressing down with mechanical precision while a cold voice explained very patiently what he’d done to deserve it…

Sark shook him again, his grip on Luca’s bruised arms painful enough to dissolve the last clinging strands of nightmare.

“The lord’s back,” said Sark shortly. “He wants to see you. Now.”

“The lord?”

“Melchior.”

Sark yanked Luca to his feet and dragged him from the dormitory. Agony lanced through him. _Lady, _he hurt. Like being turned inside out. It took all his strength not to limp. He thought he’d managed it, but Sark gave him a slantwise look.

“You all right?”

Luca nodded quickly. He forced himself to straighten.

“Yes, sir, I’m fine, I can work. The lord—”

“Says he was drunk.” Sark pulled him up a narrow flight of stairs. “Wants you now to make up for it.”

Luca would’ve thought he was in too much pain to feel relief, but it swept through him like a healing draught. The lord wanted him. If he pleased the lord, he could still be of use to his master. He wasn’t worthless, not completely.

_Don’t get ahead of yourself, hole_, the voice warned. There were still a thousand ways he could ruin everything. The lord was unpredictable. Luca would have to be very careful.

When they arrived at the room where Luca took clients, Bagoas was already there waiting. He wasted no time pulling off Luca’s robe to examine the state of his body before bending him over the dressing-table to prepare him.

“Great gods, you’re raw. You shall have to be clever and convince his lordship to take you in a position where he can’t see. Ride him, if he’ll let you. Unless you get the sense he _likes_ his boys raw, of course, in which case…”

Luca closed his eyes and let Bagoas’s voice fade into noise. When slick fingers breached him, the thought came, petulant with exhaustion, _I can prepare myself. I’m not a child. _

Luca rubbed his forehead, a futile attempt to quell the ache inside. Stupid thought, anyway; he had prepared himself when he was a child. The men who’d fucked him certainly weren’t going to bother doing it themselves.

Once Luca was ready to be used, he dressed quickly in the outfit Bagoas had brought: a transparent half-vest and a bit of gauzy goldcloth loosely tied around his hips. The cloth would come off the moment the lord pulled it.

Bagoas clucked over the bites on Luca’s neck, the livid finger-marks around his arms and thighs, but there wasn’t time for anything more elaborate than a bit of concealer on the worst of what the Beast had done to his face.

“If only my lord had enjoyed you last night, before all this damage came to show,” Bagoas muttered, sliding a bangle over Luca’s elbow to hide one of the hand-shaped bruises on his bicep.

“Sark says he was too drunk,” said Luca. He hoped he didn’t sound too desperate for confirmation that the failure hadn’t been completely his own.

Bagoas rolled his eyes.

“Too blissed, more like. I know the signs. Men hallucinate when they’ve had that much. If the master had listened to me last night, I would have told him.” His mouth tightened. “At least the lord is sober now, even if the harsh light of morning has failed to sweeten his temper.”

Bagoas produced a ring from his pocket and slipped it onto Luca’s finger. The glass jewel was ostentatiously large to hide the tiny hinge on the side.

“Do you know what this is?”

Luca nodded. Smelling salts. If the lord hurt him so badly that he was about to pass out, he was to discreetly open the ring. It wouldn’t do to faint under a client.

Luca tried not to let his aversion show on his face. He hated smelling salts. The burn always brought with it a rush of unwelcome memories.

“Good boy,” said Bagoas.

He tipped Luca’s face up, turning his chin from side to side to study him.

“Even off your bloom, Luca, you are exquisite. You clearly made an impression on this young lord, blissed and drunk though he was. Simply observe every ceremony, make no move he does not direct, and refuse him nothing.” He gave an encouraging smile. “You will do well. You always do.”

Luca wanted very badly to believe him. But kneeling after Bagoas had gone, his forehead pressed to the floor, all he could do was replay the events of last night over and over again, trying to identify the exact moment when it had all gone wrong. Perhaps when the lord kissed him? That had been right before he’d pulled off Luca’s mask. Or maybe it was Luca’s face that he’d found so displeasing. But if that was it, then why had he come back?

Unless it was to punish him. Luca remembered the sickening impact of the lord’s fist, how he’d known exactly where to land it in order to bring the Beast down with a single blow. And if he could bring down the Beast, he could do much worse to a worthless slave that no one would miss.

The door opened. Luca saw calfskin boots, the embroidered hem of a greatcoat. Was he breathing? He didn’t know.

Luca forced himself to kneel up with his legs spread and his arms folded behind his back.

“Welcome to the Harlequin, my lord,” he said—too quiet, he could barely hear himself, but he didn’t seem capable of raising his voice above a whisper. “How may your slave serve your pleasure?”

The lord sighed softly. He crossed the room to stand in front of Luca, who bent forward automatically to kiss the floor.

But the man knelt—_knelt, _a lord on the same level as a slave, as though they were equals—and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Then he tilted Luca’s face up, forcing him to meet—

—kind gray eyes, somehow wholly unchanged, in a face that had once been as familiar as Luca’s own pulse.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Robbie said.

Before now, Luca would have said that his life proceeded in a straight line, with Robbie a heartbreaking moment of brightness in a past to which he would never be allowed to return. But in this instant the ends connected and the line became a loop, with Luca tumbling along its continuum. He had no sense of direction anymore, no up or down. He was here; he was nowhere. He was little again and Master Commissioner was pushing his legs apart. Then he was with Robbie, unlocking the letters that would become words that would become worlds to which he could escape and not be touched, not even by the man who owned him.

And then he was under Master Trainer. _No escape from me, hole. I’ll be with you always._

Luca saw his mother, her bound hands grasping at nothing, eyes wide, lips blue. She couldn’t breathe. Luca couldn’t breathe.

“Breathe, sweetheart, breathe. Deep inhale—that’s it. Now breathe out.”

Luca let out a shuddering exhale. His teeth chattered like he was cold, but he wasn’t cold. Was he? Why was he shivering? His hand was fisted in Robbie’s shirt, and that wasn’t allowed, he shouldn’t be touching a man so familiarly. _Make no move he does not direct_. But Bagoas had said that about the lord, and this was Robbie. The idea that they were one in the same was threatening to split open Luca’s pounding head.

Robbie rubbed his back, making slow, soothing circles. Luca would’ve thought he could force his body to do anything, but he couldn’t seem to let go of Robbie’s shirt.

“I promised I’d find you,” Robbie said, and his smile, _Lady_, his smile was exactly the same.

“I knew you’d come,” said Luca fiercely. “I knew it. I never stopped waiting.”

Robbie brushed back loose strands of Luca’s hair, and oh, that touch—Luca arched into it shamelessly.

“I’m just sorry I took so long.” Robbie cupped Luca’s face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. “I—well, until last night, I thought you were dead.”

_I was, _Luca wanted to say. _I died when he took me away from you and I was dead until just now when you touched me._

Perhaps he would have said it if Robbie hadn’t chosen that moment to kiss him. Just a brush of his lips, but it was enough to set off sparks up and down Luca’s spine.

_Like tasting the sun_, he thought dizzily.

Robbie pulled back—gently, with soft groan, as though it pained him not to keep going. Luca licked his lips. He wanted _more_. And how strange, that feeling! So alien to want anything for himself. Not for his master or Asher or the man using him, but for Luca and Robbie alone.

“Great and little gods, I’ve missed you,” Robbie murmured. He touched Luca’s braid. “Your hair has gotten so long.”

Luca couldn’t look away from Robbie’s face. Another thing that wasn’t allowed; he shouldn’t be staring at a man like this. But Robbie’s face was the same and not at all, the boyish softness stretched into lean lines and sharp angles. High cheekbones, cut-glass jaw, brows swooping winglike over deep-set eyes. It might've been a face too intense to be called handsome, but this was _Robbie_, and he was still the most beautiful man Luca had ever seen.

Luca wanted to tell Robbie that. He wanted to tell him everything. But it seemed he was the same stupid boy who could never find the right words, because all he could think to say was, “Robbie, your nose. It used to be crooked.”

Robbie laughed, his big rich wonderful laugh.

“Yes, my lord Argent had it fixed. He said the dent made me look like a mercenary.” Then, ruefully, “Five fucking years. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Are you really a lord?”

Robbie sighed.

“Yes and no. It’s rather a long story…”

“Let me see if I understand,” said Luca seriously. “You’re Lord Argent’s ward, and he’s your grandfather, which everyone knows but they’re too afraid of him to say. And he wants to make you his heir, because he hates his cousin, but only after you’ve proved yourself, because your father was a disappointment. And so you’re at University, and you’re trying to be a gentleman, only you don’t like the lords, and you keep getting in trouble, so now your grandfather thinks you might be a disappointment, too. Oh, and your name is Robert now. Did I get it right?”

Luca sounded so like he used to when reciting his lessons that Robert had to kiss him again. He was trying to be careful about the kisses. Luca’s bottom lip was swollen and split at the corner. Robert knew better than to ask about that; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He wanted very badly to hurt everyone who had ever hurt Luca, beginning with Crawley and ending with Boq, but since that was impossible, he could at least avoid hurting Luca himself. Even if Luca would no doubt let Robert ravage his mouth until it was bleeding and never lose that worshipful look, as though Robert truly were a god come to rescue him.

Robert also knew that he had to be careful about the kisses because they were now lying side by side on the bed, their fingers tangled together. He wasn’t quite sure how that had happened, except that he’d wanted to get Luca up from the floor, off his poor bruised knees, and, well, there wasn’t much in the room aside from the bed. But he remembered how Luca had responded to being put on a bed when they were younger—so obviously expecting to be fucked, no matter how many times Robert told him he wouldn’t. As if Luca couldn’t imagine any other reason for being allowed to rest on something soft.

Robert rather doubted that anything had happened in the intervening years to change Luca’s associations with this particular piece of furniture. He had a feeling that all it would take was a too-greedy kiss, a too-intimate touch, and Luca would be on his knees unfastening Robert’s trousers.

So Robert had to be careful. But boiling fields of hell, it was difficult. Luca was just as beautifully responsive as he had been at thirteen. Just as beautiful.

And predictably, the nearness of him had exactly the same effect on Robert as it always had. Thank gods he’d had worn trousers instead of breeches, because he’d gotten hard the moment he touched Luca’s hair. His erection dwindled only to resurge every time Luca moved closer, or touched his hand, or looked at him with that adoring expression, or, well, did anything, really.

Fortunately, praising Luca was almost as good as kissing him.

“You are still so damned smart,” said Robert, pressing his lips to Luca’s palm.

Luca beamed at him and, fuck, he was hard again. Like clockwork.

Then he saw Luca’s wrist and it was all he could do not to throw up.

Gently, carefully, Robert turned both of Luca’s hands palm-up. Luca saw what Robert was looking at and turned away.

There was a matched set of thick, ragged scars across his wrists.

_Gods, he must have cut so deep…_

“You don’t have to tell me,” Robert said quietly. “But I’d like to know.”

Luca was staring at the ceiling. His eyes were distant.

Then, in a voice so remote and devoid of emotion that it was as though he was recounting someone else’s story, he told Robert what had happened after Crawley took him away.

*

Master Crawley took him to a fuckhouse. Luca had heard of fuckhouses; they were where the trainers used to threaten to sell the boys who didn’t learn fast enough. Master Crawley made the same threats, only Luca had thought (_brainless barbarian_) that he was too valuable. He’d thought he was safe.

He was so stupid.

The man who owned the fuckhouse took Master Crawley’s money and promised he’d make Luca beg for death. Then he chained Luca to a bed and told him that if he took every man in the house, he might consider keeping Luca alive.

Luca hurt so much that it was like he was floating. He left his body when the first man pushed into it. When he came back it was hours later. Master Jorin didn’t say if he’d taken every man in the house, but there was so much blood Luca thought he must have.

He hadn’t known there could be this much pain. Not in the whole world.

Master Jorin had another boy who wasn’t making enough money. He gave the boy to a client who’d bought a death. He made Luca watch.

Luca never knew the boy’s name. He knew what his blood looked like, and his insides, and he knew his fear and his screams and, finally, his despair, but not his name. The boy looked at Luca with eyes so big and black they were like holes in the world. There was nothing human left in them, but still, it took hours for him to die.

After, Master Jorin burned away the boy’s face and his brand. That way Master Crawley wouldn’t be able to tell that the body wasn’t Luca’s. Master Jorin said that Luca belonged to him now. Luca was going to make his new master a lot of money, or he was going to end up like the boy who’d died in his place.

Luca never knew how much money he made Master Jorin. It must’ve been enough, though, because Master Jorin kept him alive long after Luca stopped wanting him to.

He was fucked until he forgot everything except the sound of Robbie’s voice.

Luca didn’t know how long he was chained to the bed before it broke. The frame snapped and his fingers found something sharp and he felt a relief so acute that his body must’ve gone tight with it because the man on him cursed and came.

Luca made himself wait until the man left. Then he pulled himself up and sawed his wrists open on the nail.

He didn’t die. Master Jorin found him before he slipped over and brought a doctor to drag him back. He waited until Luca was conscious to punish him. Then he let the doctor fuck him for payment. Then he leaned down and hissed in his ear, “I decide when you die, you hear me? I decide when you get to die, you worthless cunt.”

There was more punishment after that, but Luca barely felt it. Later, when a tube was forced down his throat to feed him, he didn’t feel anything at all.

It was his brand that saved him. One of the men recognized it. He told someone who told someone who told Gregori Boq that there was a lovely little whore in a wharfside hellhole who’d trained at the best house in Lyonesse.

By then, Luca was dying. When he closed his eyes, he saw his mother. She bent over the bed, the filthy bed that he was never ever going to leave, and kissed his forehead.

_Soon, little soul, _she promised.

But it wasn’t Luca’s mother bending over him. It was a fat man in a wig. He wore jewelry and perfume, and when he touched Luca, his hands were clean.

“We need another dancer on our books. Your training house is famed for turning out boys who move like Ganymene. Tell me, slave, can you dance?”

It took Luca a long moment to realize that the man was talking to him. Asking him a question. He couldn’t make his throat work, it was too torn from the tube and other things, but he nodded.

_Yes, sir, your slave can dance. It can do anything you want._

The man rubbed his thumb over Luca’s ragged lips. Luca opened his mouth and the man pushed his thumb inside. Luca was too weak to suck it properly, but he tried. He hoped the man knew how much he tried.

“Yes, I think he’ll do nicely. And don’t try to haggle with me, Jorin. He’ll be dead in a week if I don’t like your price, and then all you’ll have to sell is his pretty corpse. Sark? Take him.”

And then the chains fell away and Luca was being lifted out of the nightmare and into his new life.

*

By the time Luca finished, Robert was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. He was trying, with every ounce of strength he had, not to cry. Gods knew he didn’t deserve to. What had he been doing while the boy he loved was being tortured? Slitting a throat? Getting his cock sucked by some ratty little Docktown piece?

Robert was so consumed by self-loathing that a touch on his arm made him flinch like he’d been hit. Luca snatched his hand away.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t want me to—” Luca looked down at his hands in his lap, twisting together so hard they were bloodless. “I’m so sorry, Robbie. Robert. It was my fault, all of it.”

Robert took his hands and kissed them.

“None of that. Don’t apologize to me. You have nothing, _nothing _to be sorry for, d’you understand?”

Luca laughed shakily.

“I heard Docktown in your voice just then.”

“Yes, it comes out when I’m emphatic. Or drunk.”

He gathered Luca to him and was relieved to find that, yes, it _was_ possible to be so distraught that his body didn’t respond to having his boy pressed against it.

“Scald the land, sweetheart. I will never forgive myself for what happened to you.”

Luca shook his head, silky hair tickling Robert’s nose.

“There wasn’t anything you could’ve done. And I’ve been lucky, really. Master Boq has been so good to me. He’s treated me better than I deserve.”

Robert gave a harsh bark of laughter.

“Oh, yes, what a great philanthropist your master is. I saw his charity at work last night.”

Luca bit his lip and dropped his eyes. Quietly, he said, “This is the best position I’ve ever had.”

Of course it was. _Fuck_. Robert was an idiot.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume I know anything about—well, anything.” He traced the bruises banding Luca’s too-thin arms. “I just can’t stand seeing you hurt.”

Luca shook his head, pulling distractedly at a strand of hair.

“I’m ugly, I know I’m ugly right now, Robert, but I won’t look like this if you come to see me again, I’ll be clean, I swear—”

“_If _I come to see you again?” said Robert incredulously. “Do you really think I’ll let you go now that I’ve found you?”

He pulled the wallet from his waistcoat and shook it out on the bedspread in a rain of gold. Luca's eyes went wide, hands flying to his mouth. Robert gave himself a moment to bask in the gratifying warmth of that awe.

_See, sweetheart? I always wanted to protect you, and now I can._

Then, with a sinking feeling, Robert realized that of all the money Luca had made for his owners, he'd probably never touched a single piece of it himself. Gods, had he ever even held a coin?

Robert answered that question by pressing a hundred-crown piece into Luca’s palm. Luca stared at it as though it was a piece of Queen Aelinor’s regalia.

“It’s so light,” Luca murmured. “I would’ve thought—they always look so big and heavy.”

Robert’s smugness dwindled to an ache. _Oh, love, I would fill your hands with money if I could. Every crown you were ever bought and sold for._

Aloud, he said, “This is—let’s see—a little more than eight thousand crowns altogether. I know it probably isn’t enough to buy you outright, but I thought your—Boq, he might accept a down payment.”

Luca tore his eyes away from the coins to look up at Robert with open astonishment.

“You still want to buy me?”

“Sweetheart, of course. That was always the plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but I thought maybe—what I told you, about the, the place Master Crawley took me—and there have been so many men since then, Robert, and I’ve done things—things you couldn’t possibly forgive me for, and—”

He took a shuddering breath.

“You shouldn’t want me. I’m not worth it. I’m not worth this.”

Robert wanted to find the men who’d left that broken note in Luca’s voice and kill them slowly. No—he’d let Luca kill them. Gods knew he deserved to return a little of what had been done to him.

But Robert was careful not to let his anger show. He didn’t want Luca to think it was directed at him. Instead, he took Luca’s face in his hands and forced his gaze up.

“_Gwylyn lé_,” he said firmly.

Luca’s trembling lips were too sweet a temptation to resist. And when they parted for him—_So responsive, sweetheart_—Robert couldn’t help deepening the kiss. Luca melted into him, so eager he was, fuck, _gasping_, like Robert was inside of more than just his mouth…

Then the image flashed in Robert's mind of Crawley raping Luca until he screamed.

Robert pulled back too quickly. Luca looked disoriented, as though shaken from a deep sleep.

“Did I—I did something wrong—”

Before his confusion could become panic, Robert took Luca’s hands and kissed them again. He kissed his slender fingers, the soft of his palms. Then, carefully, he pressed his lips to the scars on Luca’s wrists.

“You’re worth everything,” Robert said. “But only if you’ll have me, sweetheart. Do you want to be mine?”

“_Yes,_” Luca said fiercely. “Yes, Robbie, _please_. More than anything.”

Relief was a fist unclenching in Robert’s chest. _See? You’re nothing like him_.

“Good. Because I want you, too. More than anything.”

And then, because Luca tipped his face up with such a wrenchingly hopeful look, Robert was compelled to kiss him again. Chastely, this time. Luca grasped at his shirt, clinging with both hands. Just like he had when they were children. As though that had ever been enough to keep them from being pulled apart.

_What is this pain? _Robert wondered absently—and then, _Oh, of course, it’s Luca_. Loving him had always been agony and ecstasy both, like a spar of bliss lodged between his ribs. Because loving Luca had always meant having to leave him.

_No, damn it_. Robert wasn’t leaving him again. Being Lord Argent’s ward had to be good for something, didn’t it?

“Sell the Golden Bird, my lord? Oh dear me, no. I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

Boq smiled indolently and leaned back in his chair. It was barely noon, but he already had a glass of sherry in his hand. From the color in his cheeks, it wasn’t his first.

“Are you familiar with the trade in pleasure slaves, my lord?” he asked, lazily swilling the red liquor.

“A failure in my otherwise impeccable education,” said Robert through clenched teeth.

If Boq heard the bite in those words, he didn’t show it. 

“Ah, but I’m sure my lord is aware that beauty is a singularly valuable commodity," he said earnestly. "Valuable and perishable. I find that boys reach their peak between twenty-one and twenty-five; after that the decline may be gentle or steep, depending on how fast the bloom fades. Personally, I never keep a boy past the age of twenty-seven. Now, the Golden Bird is, oh, seventeen, perhaps eighteen? Already he is one of our most popular offerings, and he has the sort of youthful looks that keep. He has yet to reach his zenith, and when he does, I have reason to hope that his beauty will achieve unusual longevity. Should he stay in full bloom as long as I expect, his career could last another decade. And while of course your lordship need not worry about such matters, a man in my position simply cannot afford to forgo that sort of revenue.”

Robert ran a distracted hand through his hair. He was in desperate need of a cigarette. _And then perhaps I can use Argent’s lighter to burn this place to the ground…_

“How much would it take to change your mind?” he asked. “I have almost nine thousand crowns with me today. I can get more easily. Name your price.”

“It isn’t simply a matter of money, my lord. I must consider the prestige the Bird brings to the house. Reputation is a currency at least as valuable as coin.”

Robert scrubbed a hand over his face. _Don't __beg, _he ordered himself.

“There must be a number you’re looking for.” Then, hating him, “_Please_.”

Boq smirked as though he’d won something.

“Your insistence is a testament to the boy’s value, my lord. But I am a man of business. If I sell the Bird now I would stand to lose not only all future profit but also any future prestige he might bring to the Harlequin. Now, I may be willing to reconsider in a few years—”

“_Years? _You expect me to wait that long?”

“Of course not, my lord. While there is an extensive waitlist for a regular appointment with the Golden Bird, I would be honored to add you to our books as a client, should you desire.”

“And how much is that going to cost me?”

It was going to cost him a great deal. There was a fee to join the books, and a one-month deposit—which, Boq stressed, was nonrefundable. (Not that such a delicious, agreeable boy would give his lordship any reason to _want_ a refund, of course.) And if his lordship were to put down a six-month advance, Boq would even be willing to extend a small discount. A welcome gift to thank my lord for his patronage.

By the time Boq had summed up the full outlay of cash required to secure a precious weekly hour with the Golden Bird, Robert was beginning to understand exactly how naïve he’d been to think nine thousand crowns and Lord Argent’s name would be anything like enough to make Luca his.

The memory came, unbidden, of Crawley drawling _My, what a fortune, _while his friends sniggered.

Robert pushed it away. _Not helpful._

“I want the boy seen by a doctor,” said Robert, adopting Argent’s tone of cold authority. “And the bruises, the injuries—what happened on stage last night—”

“Bacchanal comes but once a year, my lord,” said Boq in that maddeningly ingratiating tone.

“Regardless, I won’t have him hurt.” What would Francis say? “It displeases me to see his face bruised.”

“Yes, my lord. Protection can be arranged for a nominal fee.”

Of course.

“I’ll pay it," said Robert. If nothing else, he could at least make Luca's life in this gilded hell a little easier. "When can I see him again?”

Boq perched a pair of gold spectacles on his nose, opened the massive gilt-edged ledger on his desk, and picked up a pen.

“This client looks expendable,” he muttered, crossing off a name. “Would Tuesday at four o’clock suit for your weekly appointment, my lord? I do apologize for the early hour; the boy is, as I’ve explained, almost _too_ popular. Perhaps my lord could think of him as a sweet aperitif before supper.”

Robert wanted very much to hit him. Instead he forced himself to return the lascivious smile and nod. Tuesday was five days away. They’d survived five years apart; this would be an agony far more endurable.

“And what name should I write down, my lord?”

Ah, this question. It pretended to be innocent, but Robert knew exactly what was being asked.

“Robert Fitzrobert,” he said shortly.

If Boq understood the significance of Robert’s answer, he gave no indication.

“Very good, my lord.”

“And he’ll be well-treated, I have your word?”

“My lord shows such touching concern. I assure you, the boy wouldn’t find better use in the King’s own bed.”

Luca stared at the door for a long time after it closed. If he listened, he could hear footfalls on the floorboards, fading as Robert got further and further away. Then, straining his ears, Luca could almost convince himself that he heard Robert climbing the stairs again. He could make himself believe that Robert was coming back.

_He _will _be back, _Luca told himself sternly. Robert had promised, right before leaving, and Luca had no reason to doubt him. Robert had sworn to find Luca all those years ago, and he had. He always kept his promises.

Besides, Robert was a lord now, or something like one. He was so powerful that even Master Boq had been afraid of his anger. He had money, more than Luca had ever seen, and he’d even let Luca touch a piece of it. And Robert had _grown_. He was so tall, almost as tall as the Beast, and when he held Luca—not seeming to mind how ugly he was, how used—Luca could feel the strength in his arms. Robert had even kissed him—perfect, heart-stopping kisses—as though he didn’t care about all the filthy things Luca had done with his mouth.

_You’re beautiful_, he’d said. Men had been telling Luca that since he was too young to know what it meant, but Robert was the only one he’d ever wanted to believe.

When the door opened, Luca thought for one brief, wonderful moment that it was Robert. But no, it was Bagoas who swept inside.

“I’m to bring you to the master,” he said, breathless with excitement. “He’s just spoken with the lord. You had him eating out of your hand, Luca! He was mooning over you like a lovestruck schoolboy. Do you have any idea what this means for us? The ward of the Grand Chancellor on our books! Not even Bridda—”

He stopped short, taking in Luca’s blank expression.

“Did you have to use the ring?”

Luca shook his head.

“No, sir. My lord was gentle with me.”

There must've been something in Luca’s voice, something he didn’t intend, because Bagoas gave him a long, considering look. Luca flinched and dropped his eyes.

“Hm. Well, in any case. Congratulations, Luca; your promotion is assured.”

For a moment Luca couldn’t think what he meant. Then their conversation in the dressing room came back to him. Of course; he would be first whore now. Luca forced himself to smile the way he did when a client wanted him to pretend that he liked it.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Bagoas was still regarding him with that discomfortingly unreadable expression.

“Luca,” he began before cutting himself off with a curt gesture. “Never mind. I’m sure the master will be wondering where we’ve gotten to. Come along.”

When they arrived at Master Boq’s office, the music box was blaring. Luca didn’t think he’d ever seen his master in a better mood. He was even warbling along to the aria. When Luca entered, Master Boq flung up an arm in welcome.

“Ah, there’s my beautiful Bird! I’ve just had the most intriguing conversation with Argent’s ward. Robert Fitzrobert, he calls himself.” Master Boq rolled the syllables around on his tongue like sherry. “He is a bastard, then. And Argent has yet to let him take the family name. My contacts will be _very_ interested.”

He snapped his fingers, Luca’s sign to crawl closer.

“And what did you learn, pretty one?”

Of course Master Boq would want a report. He always did, with the important clients. Luca drove his fingernails into his palms and kept his face void of expression.

“Master, forgive me,” he said, trying make the remorse sound genuine. “My lord wasn’t talkative, and I thought it best not to bother him with questions.”

To his relief, Master Boq only smiled indulgently.

“I suppose he was too busy enjoying you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“How did he take you?”

“On the bed, Master. On my back.”

It wasn’t a lie; they had been on the bed, and Luca had been lying on his back while Robert talked to him. And how strange to be on a bed with a man without being fucked! Luca couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. If it ever had.

“You must have made quite an impression,” said Master Boq, gesturing for Luca to fill his glass. “Fitzrobert made an offer for you. Of course selling you now is out of the question,” he went on, casually piercing Luca’s heart, “but I foresee a nice little bidding war shaping up in a few years.”

_A few years_. Luca swallowed against the sting in his throat.

“Until then, of course, you’ll need to keep Fitzrobert interested. I’m sure that won’t be difficult. Will it, slut?”

“No, Master.”

“Good. He’ll be taking Lieutenant Arkwright’s Tuesday slot. We can’t waste you on a common Watchman when lords wait in the wings.”

Master Boq chuckled to himself, clearly pleased with the idea of noblemen waiting on his command.

“Besides, Arkwright is…temperamental, and Fitzrobert has paid handsomely to keep you unblemished.”

Arkwright was a vicious brute and Luca wouldn’t miss him, especially if it was Robert taking his place. But Tuesday was five whole days away. And then it would be seven days until the next Tuesday.

_A few years_…

Luca was so distracted that he flinched when Master Boq stroked his face. He forced himself to lean into the touch, pressing his other cheek against his master’s thigh. There was an answering twitch under Master Boq’s robe. So that would be next, then. Of course it would; Luca should’ve expected it.

But instead of making the sign for Luca to undress, Master Boq took his chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting him up.

“Now, little Bird, listen carefully. The next time you see Fitzrobert, I want you to find out as much as you can about his past, before he came to be Argent’s ward. I gather he’s something of a mystery; he appeared from the ether three years ago. You should also listen carefully to what he says about his grandfather. My contacts are _very_ interested in Lord Argent. Do you understand?”

Luca felt like he was being drowned. Like the Pig was having the Beast hold Luca’s face in a bucket of water while fucking him. It hurt to breathe.

The slap was almost welcome. The sharp crack jolted Luca back into the moment.

“Your master asked you a question, slut.”

“Yes, Master,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, sir. Thank you for correcting me. I understand, sir, I do.”

Master Boq’s hand fell clumsily on Luca’s hair.

“What a stupid thing you are,” he murmured. “Your looks truly are your only saving grace.”

He yanked Luca’s hair to pull his head back.

“Mm. That ravishing rose of a mouth. Did you use it to please Fitzrobert?”

“Yes, Master.”

_It's_ _not a lie, _Luca told himself. Robert had seemed pleased with Luca’s mouth when he was kissing it. (Kisses that Luca had done nothing to earn, that he would never deserve.)

Master Boq rubbed his thumb over Luca’s lips. Just like he had in the fuckhouse. Without even having to think, Luca sucked it into his mouth. He could do a better job now that he wasn’t half-dead.

Master Boq made an approving noise. He patted Luca as though he were a well-trained pet.

_And aren’t I?_ Luca thought, with a sudden rush of bitterness. Such a good dog. He could crawl and bark and spread his legs on command.

“Mm, lovely boy.” Master Boq’s head fell back, eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure. “Show me how you sucked off Argent’s bastard, slut.”

Mechanically, Luca untied his master’s robe and lifted his belly and took his stiff, leaking, unwashed prick into his mouth. He tried to be nothing and nowhere, just an empty space for the man to fill, but he kept being jolted back to his body by the fingers twisting his hair (_Not Robert’s_), the voice crooning insults (_Not Robert’s_).

He forced his head down, letting the familiar burning stretch focus him. He worked the muscles of his throat around his master’s cock and was rewarded by the gush of his release, so deep that Luca barely had to taste it.

Master Boq let loose a stream of Baktrian curses. His hand tightened in Luca’s hair, then relaxed.

“Ah, Father of Hosts, that was good. What a talented mouth you have, my dear. Now lick me clean and put me away. Balls, too, slut, don’t be lazy. Yes, that’s very nice.”

When Master Boq’s prick and balls were glistening, Luca refastened his robe and sat back on his heels. He had to suppress the ungrateful urge to wipe his mouth.

“Thank you for using me, Master.”

Only after he’d spoken did Luca realize that he’d neglected to inflect his voice with the appropriate note of breathless gratitude. There was no emotion in the words at all.

Fortunately Master Boq didn’t seem to notice. He waved Luca away with a bejeweled hand.

After the study door closed behind him, Luca let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Lady, what was _wrong _with him? He’d sucked his master’s cock a thousand times. It had never been difficult to show enthusiasm, to moan around the prick in his mouth, to worship what his master gave him and eagerly swallow his release. Not when the alternative was so much worse. And thanking him after had never felt so much like chewing glass.

It had been like this with Crawley, too. Easy enough to be his master’s mindless plaything until Robert arrived. He made Luca’s life worth living and infinitely more difficult all at once.

_You just have to make it to Tuesday_, Luca reminded himself. Five days. He would survive that. He just couldn’t think about all the days after. The years. He couldn’t think about what it would be like to live for those brief, perfect visits. To keep on living in the time in between.

Luca just couldn’t think, that’s all.

_That shouldn’t be too difficult for you, should it, hole?_


	5. Chapter 5

Completely despite himself, Robert got back to school in time for International Law. He was even early enough to snag a seat on the top tier at the back of the room. He saw Val in the front row below, hunched over his notes. No doubt he’d spent all morning preparing for class.

Robert felt a rush of exasperated fondness. Val could probably give the lecture himself.

No doubt he’d have done a more interesting job of it than Professor Tilney. Robert had to light a cigarette in order to keep himself awake. His notes rapidly devolved into doodles, then scribbles. His chin hit his chest; he jerked his head up. His chin fell again. He had the pleasant sensation of the room dissolving around him.

“Fitzrobert!”

From the way his classmates were sniggering, Tilney had been calling him name for some time.

“Late night, Fitzrobert?” said Tilney nastily. “How’s your head?”

“All the better for you asking, sir.”

“Oh, good. Then perhaps you can enlighten us on the subject of the barbarian conquest?”

There was a map of the Barbarian Territories pulled down over the board. Val was mouthing the words _Treaty of Roane_.

“The Treaty of Roane,” Robert repeated. “Yes. Right. Ah, well, sir, it was in the Battle of Roane that King Roland defeated the barbarian clans. The Treaty united the Territories under Solasan rule and made vassals of their people.”

“A schoolboy could have told us as much,” said Tilney, rolling his eyes. “Can anyone take pity upon Fitzrobert? Yes, Mr. Fawcett, I see you waving your arm around. No need to dislocate it.”

Val, red-faced, put down his hand.

“The question was whether the Treaty can be considered legally valid given that none of its signatories were designated by or represented the interests of the barbarian people. But, sir, isn’t it clear that this was annexation by international fiat? That is to say, the Council colluded with the Imperium—”

“That’s enough, Fawcett. We can all see clearly where _your _sympathies lie. Yes, Mr. Courtney?”

Robert stiffened upon hearing Adrian’s dry, amused voice.

“Fawcett seems to be implying that there was something untoward about the Council working in concert with the Imperium. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Imperium was established to address exactly these sorts of conflicts. Ensuring sovereignty while sharing common aims and so forth. The Treaty of Roane is a shining example of cooperation between the realms.”

“Very good, Courtney.” Tilney turned back to Robert. “All caught up, Fitzrobert?”

“Yes, sir. But I’m afraid I have to agree with Fawcett. The barbarians—and they call themselves the Keld, don’t they, sir?—never had any form of centralized government, which makes the issue of representation rather a pointed one. Furthermore, the matter of whether the incursion of Solasan forces was provoked, as raised during the Summit of Tors, has yet to be resolved. Our sovereignty over the Territories is far from legally settled.”

Tilney smiled sourly.

“Ah, but Fitzrobert, you forget your deep precedent: _uti possidetis_. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and he who possesses is entitled to continue in that happy state. The Territories have been under control of the crown for almost a hundred years, and King Ademar—may Melita prosper him—has declared that they will be ours for a hundred more.”

“_Uti possidetis _presupposes that the property under dispute was acquired legally. If the Territories _were_ annexed by collusion and fiat—”

“Oh, go back to sleep, Fitzrobert,” said Tilney irritably. “Really, one would think you sympathize with these savages.”

“But he does, sir,” Adrian interjected. “Why, Fitzrobert can even speak their language.”

Robert felt himself go hot and cold. All around him, the room erupted in astonished murmurs.

“You speak _barbarian?_” Tilney exclaimed. “How on earth did you learn?”

“From a barbarian, sir.”

The supper bell rang, saving Robert from having to answer any more unanswerable questions. Everyone sprang up and began packing up as quickly as possible. Robert swept his books and papers into his bag.

“Fitzrobert, since you are determined to remain mysterious and intractable, please write twenty pages on the conquest of the Barbarian Territories, arguing in _support_ of the crown’s position,” Tilney shouted over the sudden din. “You too, Mr. Fawcett.”

Fortunately the stream of students exiting the classroom swallowed Robert’s colorful response. He looked for Adrian’s weasel face in the crowd, but he seemed to have had to sense to vanish.

Hugo was waiting for Robert in the hallway. He grabbed Robert's jacket and pulled him into a smoke-filled alcove.

“Fitz, you’re full of surprises,” he said around his cigarette. “I didn’t know you spoke barbarian.”

Robert bit back the response on the tip of his tongue: that until ten minutes ago there were only two people in the world who knew, one of whom he’d thought was dead and the other he now wanted very much to kill.

Instead he said mildly, “They call it Keld, I think. And I’m hardly fluent.”

“Who taught you? And don’t say ‘a barbarian.’”

“Let me have my secrets, Hugo. They’re the only thing that keep me interesting.”

Hugo laughed, sandy brown hair falling fetchingly over his forehead. He really was too handsome for his own good.

“Then you’d better stop telling them to Adrian. Val says he’s to blame for you gutter-surfing in Paradiso last night?”

“That’s a generous interpretation. Adrian may have begun the evening’s descent into the gutter, but I take full responsibility for its conclusion.”

“He’s been bragging about his grand plan to get you back. Did it work?”

“It did not.”

“Mother will be so relieved.”

Robert rolled his eyes.

“Val worries too much.”

“He cares about you, duckling,” said Hugo, patting his cheek. “And he’s jealous, of course.”

“_Jealous? _Of what?”

“The fact that you can show up to class hungover, fall asleep halfway through, and still throw deep precedent and the Summit of Whatsit in Tilney’s smug face,” said Hugo, as though it were obvious. “Val spends half his life studying while you play with your sword and chase after boys, and you still come out neck and neck every time. Don’t tell me that you failed to notice the colors he turned when you casually took top honors last term?”

Seeing Robert’s expression, he laughed.

“Do you know, Fitz, I think you’re the most charmingly self-centered man I’ve ever met.”

Robert was still trying to form a rejoinder when a hand fell on his elbow. He turned to see Francis’s ratty little hanger-on Anthony Bietel. It was a sign of the regard in which he was generally held that everyone called him Beetle to his face. What little status he had came from running Francis’s errands.

“Lord Mountbatten invites you to take tea with him in High Parlor,” said Beetle primly.

“What sterling charity,” said Hugo, deliberately accentuating his provincial accent. “Do they have those little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, then?”

“_You’re _not invited, Forteys.”

“He’s playing with you, Beetle,” Robert sighed. “Hugo, if you let me borrow your copy of the _Blackstone Commentaries_ to write Tilney’s blasted essay, I’ll bring you a whole basket of sandwiches.”

“But will you cut the crusts off?”

“With my best sword.”

“Done. Toss my room for it when you get back.”

As Robert followed Beetle down the hall, Hugo called after him, “And one of these days you’ll tell me where you learned to speak barbarian!”

“No, I won’t,” said Robert under his breath.

High Parlor was a club over the dining hall where the lords took tea, smoked cigars, and plotted against each other. While there was no official membership policy that required noble birth, it was understood that only lords and their well-born friends were allowed. Robert posed something of a problem: Argent was the most powerful lord on the Royal Council, but until he formally recognized his bastard grandson as his heir, Robert was even more a nobody than Hugo. Francis Mountbatten, doyenne of High Parlor, was Robert’s second cousin; it had been tacitly agreed that Robert would be permitted entry on his invitation as a sort of permanent guest.

While Robert had no patience for the petty machinations of Francis’s set, he'd surprised himself by becoming quite fond of his cousin. It would've been easy for Francis to snub him; the fact that he acknowledged Robert as a peer (if not, admittedly, a relative) meant more than Robert cared to admit. Besides, aside from Argent, Francis was the only real family he had left.

When Robert arrived at High Parlor, tea had already been served. Francis lounged on his usual couch, attended by his usual cronies. When he saw Robert, he raised an elegant hand in welcome. Beside him, Piers Ambrose leaned in to murmur something in his ear.

Seeing the two of them together stirred something in Robert’s memory.

_Francis told me that he and Ambrose fucked the boy two at once. Slid their cocks in side by side. He took it all and licked them clean after…_

It was as though Francis had twisted into a new shape in front of him. Robert tried to breathe through the suffocating heat of rage that rose in his chest. What was it Harrow used to say? _Tempers like yours are how battles are won and wars are lost, my lad_. If Robert struck out now he would gain the immediate satisfaction of seeing Francis and Piers reduced to a bloody pile and forever forfeit the possibility of making Luca his.

Francis had one leg crossed over the other at the ankle; his hand was on his knee, cigarette dangling insouciantly.

“So, Robert. How did you enjoy your Bacchanal at the Harlequin?”

“You now have the distinction of being the only man to ever run away from the Golden Bird,” said Piers, with a grin that Robert wanted to wipe off. “They ought to put up a statue of you in Paradiso Square.”

Everyone burst out laughing. Clearly Adrian had already shared his own version of Robert’s disgrace.

Robert forced himself to laugh along with them, not betraying the furious humiliation that roiled his gut. He sat, mirroring Francis’s pose, and light a cigarette.

“What accounts for this unconscionable behavior?” asked Francis, filling Robert’s cup with tea. “Too much drink? Too much bliss?”

Bliss? Oh, right—that was what they called the silver powder Adrian with which had laced his drinks.

“Both, in abominable combination,” Robert admitted, taking the cup. “What _is _that stuff? The bliss?”

“They distill it from some sort of leaf, I think,” said Piers. “I’ve heard the Dogs of Guye chew wads of it before battle. That’s how Kenever’s forces defeated the First Battalion at the border last year.”

“And then they were all so hungover that when the Royal Regiment arrived they went down like ninepins,” Oliver Dalton added.

“Courtney has always had a heavy hand with the bliss bottle,” said Francis. “Every time I let him near my glass, I end up watching purple elephants crawl across the ceiling. Did you see things, Robert?”

“Yes,” said Robert, meeting his eyes. “I saw monsters.”

“Well, that sounds damned unpleasant,” said Giles Clifford earnestly. “I’m not sure I would’ve been able to perform either.”

“You only say that because you haven’t had the Golden Bird,” said Piers. “Trust me, that little whore could rouse the dead.”

Robert strained his tea through his teeth. He decided that, should the opportunity present itself, he would kill Piers first. Harrow had Robbie garrote a man with piano wire once; that might prove a satisfying method. Of course, Robert would defer to Luca’s preference.

“Since Fitzrobert didn’t fuck Ganymene on Melchior’s altar, does that mean the satyr won?” wondered Dalton.

“Yes, we really ought to consider the religious implications of your failure, Robert,” said Francis.

Robert forced himself to smile.

“I’ll leave an offering at the temple.”

“We all ought to, what with qualifying exams coming up,” Clifford pointed out. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”

“You especially, Cliff,” Piers snorted.

“What was the pass rate last year?” asked Dalton.

“Eighteen percent,” said Robert. Val had recited the number so many times that it was seared into his brain.

“And they give hardly any advantage to gentlemen, you know,” said Clifford anxiously. “I mean to say, _Edmund Carlyle_ failed the first time. And he’s the King’s cousin, _and _his father is the Duke of Chesten.”

“Didn’t his brother Rafe take Highest Honors?” said Dalton, taking a pastry from the dolly.

“Rafe is even more an egghead than our Robert,” said Francis. “We mere mortals can only hope the gods are smiling on the day we sit the test.”

“If I pass, my father is going to give me Deed’s End,” said Piers, not even trying the smugness from his voice.

Deed’s End was one of his family’s many country estates in the Midlands. Francis had endless stories of ill-spent weekends on its bucolic grounds.

“My father’s going to give me a gladiator,” said Dalton.

“Yes, mine as well,” said Clifford. “But he’ll probably give me one even if I don’t pass. I’ll be leaving school anyway.”

“We’ll _all_ be leaving, Cliff,” said Piers, rolling his eyes. “What gentleman stays at school after quals?”

“I’ve heard that our favorite scholar is considering it," said Francis, indicating Robert with his cigarette.

Adrian must’ve told him. _Damn you, Hound._

“If my lord Argent approves,” said Robert carefully. “Yes, I was rather thinking I’d go all the way. Finish the last two years, sit finals, get my degree.”

He found that he was being stared at with the polite bewilderment of a man who’d just announced his plan to go over a waterfall in a wine barrel.

“Why on earth would you do that?” asked Piers.

“Just a whim, I suppose.”

“Fitzrobert has always liked a challenge,” said a familiar voice.

Robert turned to see Adrian, the picture of nonchalance. Robert reminded himself that Adrian loved to watch him unravel. He used to pick fights just to goad Robert into punching a wall.

Well, Robert wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Adrian was ignoring him; he would ignore Adrian. _Any game a hound can play, a fox can play twice as well._

“What will your father give you if you pass quals, Courtney?” asked Cliff.

“Oh, he’s made a few suggestions,” said Adrian carelessly. “A racehorse, a ship. You know, the usual. But I was rather thinking that I might ask for a boy.”

“That’s a capital idea,” said Piers around his cigarette. “Especially as you’re going into the family business. Always good to have a boy on hand to share with the merchants and tradespeople and so forth.”

Piers did so love to remind Adrian that even if Charles had given his father a title, his family was still in trade. Adrian’s mouth went tight. But it was a clever cut, subtle enough that objecting would seem petty.

Despite himself, Robert felt a twist of sympathy. Any of the others would have relished seeing Adrian put in his place, but Robert had never found fixed fights entertaining.

“What about you, Fitzrobert?” asked Dalton. “Has my lord Argent dangled a carrot?”

“No,” said Robert. “My guardian doesn’t believe in bribery.”

Argent was, however, a dispenser of strategic rewards. After Robert was presented at Highcourt for the first time and managed not to trip, curse, or drop his fine-tuned Gracegarden drawl, Argent had presented him with a leather-bound copy of the White Sea Accords and a beautiful Ibrerran saber. Robert’s end-of-term grades were always similarly rewarded. A sword, a book. The two things that bound them together; the means by which he could make Argent proud.

But Robert’s probation had cast a pall over the term. On the day he’d returned to school, he’d had waited with his suitcases in the foyer for over an hour before Tolliver showed up to inform him that Lord Argent would not be coming down to wish him goodbye. He didn’t need to add what Robert could read easily in his pursed lips and narrowed eyes. All those years of work; the tutor to fix Robert’s accent, the doctor to fix his nose. And at the end of it all, what a disappointment he turned out to be.

“Quals presents are a sacred tradition,” said Francis loftily, emphasizing the point with a flourish of his cigarette. “My lord Argent may not be lavish, but he is a man of duty. Ask, Robert, and ye shall receive.”

The words hit Robert with an almost physical jolt. Of course. Argent might be a stingy, spiteful old goat, but he believed in tradition the way that other men believed in the gods. There was no way he wouldn’t offer Robert a present if he passed his quals. And Robert knew exactly what to ask for.

The welts were thin, precise, and evenly spaced. They laddered Asher’s legs from his thighs to his ankles, beaded lightly with blood. When Luca applied the salve-soaked rag to his skin, Asher flinched and cursed.

The salve was a favor from the doctor. Luca had only ever seen a doctor a handful of times in the years he’d been at the Harlequin, and then only when he was so badly injured that he couldn’t work, but Bagoas said that Robert had insisted. Luca got the impression that Robert had given Master Boq money for it, but of course Master Boq still made Luca pay the doctor with his mouth. _Mustn’t be spendthrift, little Bird_.

Anyway, it was good that Luca had to suck the doctor, because the doctor had given him the glass pot of sweet-smelling salve after. “In case another oaf mars that perfect skin,” he’d said, and then something about a complexion like peaches and cream. Luca didn’t know what peaches were, but the salve _worked_. When he put a little between his legs after a rough session, it numbed him so much that he almost didn’t feel the next man push in.

Still, the effects took a minute or two to take hold. Right now, Asher still felt the sting of the cane, the welts radiating lines of fire to his bones.

“Great buggered boiling black fields of fucking _hell_,” Asher ground out. “Melita’s perfect tits on a pike, that _hurts_.”

“You’ll start feeling better in a minute, I swear.”

Luca didn’t add that once Asher was numbed, he’d have to clean the places where the tip of the cane had broken the skin. He wasn’t looking forward to that. Even with the salve, it would be agony.

Asher pressed his face to the pallet.

“I hate him,” he said, voice muffled. “I hope Orkus visits him in his sleep and rats chew his balls off.”

Luca rubbed Asher’s back. He knew that the pain was more than physical. The client with the cane was a regular, the same man who’d bought Asher’s virginity. He liked his boys fresh and unwilling. Luca guessed that Asher hating it so much made having him feel like breaking in a virgin every time.

“It’s not so bad,” Luca said. “You’re only bleeding a little. I know the welts sting now, but they’ll be gone in a few days. You won’t even scar.”

“I wish I _would_ scar. I wish I was covered in scars. If I was ugly—”

“If you were ugly you’d be up a chimney,” Luca reminded him. “Half those boys don’t even survive their contracts.”

He daubed Asher’s thigh, trying to ignore his muffled sob.

“Besides," he went on, "you’ve only got another three years. That’s nothing.”

Asher shook his head. Luca could hear him grinding his teeth.

“I can’t take three more years of this. I’ll go mad.”

Luca bit his lip. He didn’t say what he knew they were both thinking: that Luca had already taken eleven years of this. He’d been born a slave and he would die a slave, and in the time between he’d be put to whatever use his master pleased. But Asher would be free at the end of his contract. He’d get to go home to his family.

_And you’ll never see yours again, hole_._ Not that they’d want to see what a used-up whore you’ve become…_

“I’ll talk to Bagoas,” said Luca, interrupting the voice. “See if he can get your appointments switched. The master’s been in a good mood, he might be able to convince him.”

Asher rolled his eyes.

“Bagoas hates me.”

“That’s not true, Asher,” said Luca, fighting exasperation. “If you were more obliging, better behaved—if you flirted with the clients like I taught you instead of glaring at them—”

“Then I could be the master’s pet, too?” Asher spat.

“Men hurt you because it’s cheap," said Luca through gritted teeth. "Do you want better clients or not?”

“I don’t want _any _clients.”

“Well, that isn’t going to happen.”

“You want to make me into a mindless whore, like you,” Asher hissed. “My uncle was at the Battle of Red Beck with Kenever. He says barbarians have all kinds of dirty tricks.”

Luca went still. He could feel his fingers twisting the rag tight around his hand. Cutting off the circulation. The pain was dull, satisfying. Like when a man decided that Luca didn’t deserve to breathe. That shimmering edge on the brink of passing out.

A touch on his thigh brought Luca back. Asher. He released the rag, breath hitching as the blood returned to his hand.

“Sorry, sorry—I know I’m not done with the salve, I should be—where does it hurt?”

Asher pointed to a few of the thinner, deeper welts. He tried to keep himself quiet as Luca worked, muffling small noises of pain in his hands.

Then abruptly, he asked, “Did Sark bring you another book?”

Luca nodded. He’d paid for it on his knees that morning. It was easier not to think of Robert when Sark was the one fucking him. Luca just had to spread his legs and let his mind drift. Sark did all the work, rutting into him hard and fast while gasping endearments. At least Sark had done it from behind this time. He liked to kiss Luca when taking him on his back, filling Luca’s mouth with his thick, tarry tongue. He liked Luca to hold his eyes and smile, as if they were lovers. As if it were real.

_You should be grateful he bothers with you at all_, Luca reminded himself. If Sark didn’t want to kiss him, fuck him, there wouldn’t be any books.

“What’s this one about?” Asher asked, voice rough with pain.

“It’s different stories about how the world started.”

Asher hissed as Luca ran the rag over an especially tender patch of thigh.

“_Fuck. _Tell me one of the stories.”

“In Kharat, they think the first people hatched from an egg.”

“What laid the egg?”

“A chicken as big as the sky.”

“Mm. Wonder what it’d taste like fried up with mustard sauce.”

Luca laughed despite himself. Food was never far from Asher’s mind. When Master Boq cut their rations as punishment, Asher would describe his favorite meals to distract them from the emptiness. Pork pie, beans on toast, almond fritters, chicken stuffed with fruit and herbs. Luca had never eaten food like that—honestly, he wasn’t sure that it existed outside of Asher’s imagination—but Asher always made it sound so real that Luca could almost taste it.

“Are you finished?” asked Asher hopefully.

Luca shook his head, feeling like a monster.

“I still need to clean where he cut you.”

Asher buried his face in his arms.

“Keep telling me stories.”

The Harlequin on a Tuesday in the late afternoon was unsurprisingly subdued. In his eagerness, Robert had arrived for his appointment well over an hour early and was obliged to wait in a vulgar sitting room to which the eunuch kept sending boys with wine and aperitifs. Robert tried to study—he’d brought one of his more transportable textbooks with him to loan to Luca—but he was too excited to focus.

When the eunuch beckoned, he leapt to his feet. It took an exercise of will not to sprint down the corridor.

For all his eagerness, Robert still felt a pang of nerves before opening the door. What if it had all been a dream, and on entering the room he would find that Luca had vanished like a phantom?

But no, there he was, kneeling on the floor with his arms folded and his legs open and his expression blank. When Luca saw Robert, the life flooded back into his eyes.

For a moment neither of them spoke. They simply stared. Then Robert let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and Luca made a noise, and they were both scrambling across the room to meet each other.

“Did you miss me?” Robert asked, stupidly.

“_Yes_,” said Luca, voice muffled against Robert’s chest.

Robert tipped Luca's face up. Luca parted his lips hopefully and Robert took the invitation to lean down and kiss him.

Gods, it was like coming home again. Every fucking time.

“I missed you too,” Robert murmured, running a thumb over Luca's chin. Then, in a shameful rush, “Boq refused to sell you. I tried, I offered him all the money I have, more than I have, but he has this stupid long-term fucking business plan and he just sat there with his smug face and his glass of sherry and very politely told me to go fuck myself.”

He took a breath.

“I’m so sorry, Luca. I keep failing you.”

“That’s not true,” said Luca fiercely. “You’ve never failed me. You couldn’t.”

The enormity of Luca’s trust never failed to swell Robert’s chest and hollow his gut all at once. Luca still had just as much faith in him as he did five years ago, and Robert had done just as little to deserve it.

“I have a plan,” Robert said. “But first things first.”

Robert had been preparing for this all week. He put his case on the bed and opened the snaps, then withdrew a gingham blanket like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. Next he produced sandwiches in brown paper, a carton of strawberries, packets of shortbread, and a thermos of tea.

“The tea _was _hot,” said Robert ruefully, “before it spent an hour in the sitting room. And there’s no milk because I was worried it would curdle, and no sugar because, well, I don’t take sugar in my tea—but you’ve always had a sweet tooth, that’s why I brought the shortbread, so really, I should’ve…”

Seeing Luca’s face, he stopped short.

“Sweetheart? Are you all right?”

Luca was staring at the spread. His hand twitched, as though he wanted desperately to reach for something but didn't dare let himself.

“You brought all this for me?” he whispered.

Robert touched the painfully narrow curve of Luca’s waist. From thumb to forefinger, he could span Luca’s spine to his navel.

“That fat master of yours clearly isn’t sharing his meals,” he said sourly.

Luca shook his head even as he leaned into Robert’s hand.

“Master Boq is very generous. We get two whole meals a day, good ones.”

“Two whole meals, hm?”

Luca didn’t hear the sarcasm in Robert’s voice. He said earnestly, “Yes, bread and broth before afternoon service and potage before evening service. Sometimes there’s even bread with the potage.”

He gazed longingly at the picnic spread.

“But never anything like this.”

“Where would you like to start?”

Luca bit his lip.

“Please, Robert, you choose.”

The prospect of feeding Luca a strawberry proved too tempting to resist. Robert selected the biggest, reddest one. He knew from experience that if he let Luca pick for himself, he would inevitably reach for a bruised runt.

Luca stared at the strawberry as if it were a work of art.

“It’s beautiful, Robert. Is it—it’s really food?”

“It’s a strawberry. You’ve never—” But of course he hadn’t. “It’s a fruit. Like the orange I brought you, remember?”

Luca nodded, brightening at the memory.

“Of course. The juice got everywhere.”

Oh, it had. Robert jerked off to the memory of licking orange juice from Luca’s throat and lips for more years than he cared to admit.

Luca cupped Robert’s hand and brought the strawberry to his mouth. He took the tip of between his teeth and bit down neatly. Robert was watching so intently that he could almost feel the burst of flavor on his own tongue. Luca’s breath hitched. His eyelids fluttered shut. He looked _blissed_, like he’d downed a whole goblet of silver-laced wine.

“Good?” Robert asked.

Luca made an inarticulate noise of pleasure that went straight to Robert’s cock. He took another careful little bite, tongue darting out to lick the imprint of his teeth in the soft red flesh. Gods, why had Robert worn breeches? The outline of his burgeoning erection was clearly visible, and he didn’t dare adjust himself in case Luca took it as some sort of cue.

Luca finished the rest of the strawberry in a series of minute bite. Robert tried to think of Tilney naked, Tolliver naked, _Argent _naked, anything to defuse the heat rising in his groin.

It didn’t work. When Luca opened his eyes, his gaze fell immediately on the bulge between Robert’s legs.

“Sorry,” Robert muttered, feeling himself go red. “It’s a completely involuntary reaction—”

But Luca was already on his knees. He pressed a palm to the overheated line of Robert’s erection as the other hand expertly unbuttoned the placket of his breeches. _Gods, _but Luca was good with his hands. He caressed Robert through the thin fabric with an expression of rapt attention, as though Robert’s cock was the center of his world.

And _fuck_ if that thought didn’t just make Robert harder.

Part of him—a completely evil, unworthy part—desperately wanted to let Luca keep going. Let him take out Robert's cock and suck it into that hot, sweet little mouth—_deeper_, gods, Robert had seen Luca with the satyr, he could take it all and not even gag. He’d look up at Robert with his eyes so full of trust and open up for everything he had to give him. Then he’d swallow every drop and say thank you.

And that was the worst part: that Robert could betray him so utterly and Luca would still thank him and mean it.

Before Luca could undo the last button of his breeches, Robert pulled him up. Too roughly—Luca cringed. Not even trying to dodge the blow, just bracing himself for it.

_He’d probably thank you for that, too_, Robert thought, stoking the flames of self-loathing just that much higher.

“I’m not angry,” said Robert quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But Luca_, _you do _not_ have to do that.”

Luca was trembling. Robert realized that he was holding his arms too tightly and eased his grip.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to scare you. You understand, don’t you? You know that you don’t have to—well, service me that way?”

Luca shook his head; his fingers tangled in his hair, yanking anxiously.

“But I want to do it. I want so much to please you, sir.”

That _sir _hit Robert like a punch. It had been a long time since he’d had to remind Luca to call him by his name. He took a steadying breath, running his hands up and down Luca’s arms. There were red marks now in the shape of his fingers. Another thing to hate himself for.

“Why do you want to please me, Luca?” Robert asked quietly.

Luca looked at him with wrenching confusion.

“Because I need to thank you. You’ve been so good to me—you brought all this food, and you paid for the doctor and the protection fee. You came to see me again, even though I’m—even though I’m not—”

His fingers twisted bloodless in his hair, jerking so hard that Robert thought his scalp might tear. He grabbed Luca’s wrists.

“Don’t,” said Robert, as firmly as he dared. “Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry.” Luca looked down at his hands as though they belonged to someone else. “I don’t even know I’m doing it.”

“I know you don’t,” Robert sighed. “Luca, listen, you owe me nothing.”

“But I do,” said Luca fervently. “I owe you _everything_. Please, Robert. I’m so grateful, for all of it.”

Luca touched Robert’s thigh, the lightest possible touch. Pleading, not insisting.

“I would show you,” he said softly.

Robert shook his head, as much to clear it as to refuse. Gods, how was he still hard?

“We had a rule. I promised, remember?”

“Yes, but I thought—if you wanted it, I hoped you might let me—”

Robert silenced Luca with a kiss. He tasted of strawberries and only a little like fear.

“That’s enough for now,” said Robert, threading his fingers through Luca’s hair. “If I get hard, that’s just my cock having a mind of its own. This is all I want from you, all right? Only this.”

He kissed Luca again, swallowing his protest. Luca went soft and pliant under him, the way he always did. He opened wider so that Robert could lick into his mouth and suck his tongue. But even though he was just as eager as always, just as responsive, Robert felt a twist of unease in his chest.

_Because I need to thank you, _Luca had said. Not _Because I want you. _He’d thought he was paying Robert back. As though a little kindness put him in the kind of debt he could only get out of by hitting his knees.

Robert pulled back carefully, not wanting to upset Luca any more than he already had. He could still see the threat of panic in Luca’s pinpoint pupils, his ragged breathing. When Crawley first brought Luca from the training house, it had taken almost nothing to work him up into this state. A stray glance would have him pulling out his hair and offering Robbie anything he wanted.

“Why don’t we eat?” said Robert, with a cheer he didn’t feel. “Here, sit. Try one of these sandwiches. Cucumber, this one is. That’s a sort of vegetable, I think,” he added, before Luca could ask. “Or maybe a fruit? Something healthy. You need the vitamins, sweetheart.”

Luca needed all the vitamins he could get. His arms were so thin that Robert’s fingers had met around them.

While Luca peeled away the brown paper as though the sandwich inside was a precious gift draped in gold leaf, Robert took the opportunity to rebutton his breeches and adjust himself. Thankfully Luca’s incipient emotional breakdown was enough to kill any lingering arousal. _At least I’m not that much of a monster._

Robert kicked off his boots, trying to ignore Luca’s abortive gesture and contrite expression—he probably thought it was his job to take off a man’s shoes along with his breeches—and sat cross-legged on the bed across from him.

“Now, let me tell you the plan,” said Robert. “I’m going to need your help to pull it off.”

Luca knew that Robert was the smartest man in Solas, probably the world, but there seemed to be several immediate problems with the plan, not least of which being that Robert wanted Luca to read a terrifyingly important and expensive-looking book.

“So that you can quiz me when I see you next,” he explained, as though this was a perfectly reasonable request to make of a brainless barbarian whore. “Just like when I had a test at the Coventry school. I don’t think I would’ve passed history if it wasn’t for you.”

Luca took the book gingerly. The cover was wine-colored leather. Embossed golden letters spelled out the words NOVA STATUTA.

“I don’t think I’m smart enough to understand this,” Luca said. Master Trainer, helpful as always, chimed in, _Shouldn’t even be touching it, hole._

“’Course you're smart enough,” said Robert through a mouthful of sandwich. “You’re the smartest person I know. And, look, you don’t have to understand it—hell, _I _don’t understand most of it. Just focus on the parts you think seem important, the things that come up a lot. _Alien merchants_, that’ll be one. Lots of statutes about those damned alien merchants.”

Luca didn’t know what an alien merchant was. He did know how to suck cock, but Robert seemed no more interested in using him for that now than he had been five years ago. Even when he was so hard that Luca could see the beautiful throbbing ridge of his cockhead through his breeches.

_An involuntary reaction_, Robert had called it. That made sense; men had always told Luca that it was his fault they couldn’t control themselves. But those men had also always fucked him. And Robert wouldn’t.

_Stop it, _Luca told himself sternly. Of course Robert was still holding himself to that promise (that stupid, stupid promise) that he’d made when he was thirteen and Luca was eleven and Luca had first offered to do anything Robbie wanted. Luca knew that Robbie was probably just scared of hurting him (even though Luca reassured him that he was trained to take pain, and anyway, nothing Robbie would do could possibly hurt because it would be _Robbie _doing it), but he’d insisted. _Not until I buy you. Not until you’re mine_. And if there was one thing Luca knew about Robert, it was that he always kept his promises.

“Luca? Are you all right?”

Robert was looking at him with concern. Luca shook himself. Really, he was being ridiculous. If Robert wanted to use Luca for reading instead of cocksucking, that was his decision. Luca had no right to question him. He’d already upset Robert enough today by acting like a such a pathetic, needy slut.

“Yes, Robert. Thank you for the book. I’ll do my best, I swear.”

“I know you will, sweetheart. You always do.”

Every time Robert called him sweetheart, Luca felt a shiver of pleasure curl down his spine. Other men spoke to him like that sometimes, but always with an edge of mockery. They never let him forget what he was. Only Robert had ever made Luca feel like he could be something more.

“So if you pass the exam—_when _you pass the exam—your grandfather will offer to buy you something as a reward?” said Luca, carefully folding the paper around his half-eaten sandwich.

“Almost certainly. It’s tradition for noblemen to give their sons these disgustingly grandiose presents if they pass quals. Gladiators, racehorses, ships. Pleasure slaves. It’s pure peacocking—they’re flaunting their money for each other as much as they’re rewarding high marks.”

That made sense. Master Crawley had passed Luca around to his friends for the same reason. _Such an expensive, well-trained toy. Too pretty not to share_. And when rich men rented him for parties, the pleasure seemed at least as much in showing off as it was in using him. 

“What did your grandfather give your father?” Luca asked, curious.

“Oh, my father washed out of University long before quals," said Robert, rolling his eyes. "One of the many black marks against him in Argent’s book. But I know that when Argent took Highest Honors, his father deeded him Lightcliffe Hall.”

From Robert’s tone, Luca understood that this was a very important gift. He might’ve had questions, but Robert took his hand then, twining their fingers together, and every coherent thought was swept away by a wave of relief. Robert still wanted to touch him. Luca hadn’t ruined everything by being a greedy whore.

“Argent pays lip service to resenting the excess, but at the end of the day, he’s a staunch traditionalist,” Robert was saying. “Not to mention a competitive bastard. He always has to come out on top without it seeming like he’s put any effort in at all.”

Luca worked up the courage to tighten his fingers around Robert’s. Not grabbing, just holding. Robert’s answering squeeze made warmth bloom in his chest. Luca wanted to close his eyes, to imprint this feeling so deeply in his memory that it could never be taken away, but Robert was still talking and he had to pay attention.

“Argent has negotiated treaties before the Imperium. He’ll make easy work of Gregori Boq. Besides, nobody would dare refuse anything to the Grand Chancellor of the Royal Council.”

There was bitterness in Robert’s voice, but also a brittle sort of pride. Luca realized with a start that Robert loved his grandfather. But the love was buried under so many different feelings—resentment, obedience, fear—that Robert didn’t even know it was there.

Luca turned this thought over in his mind like a flat stone, then put it away to think about later.

“Robert, may I ask a question?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

_Of course_. Robert always liked it when Luca asked questions; Luca should have remembered that.

“Thank you. You said that your grandfather resents the excess? And I don’t know how much my master wants for me, how much I’m worth—” _Worthless, brainless barbarian—_ “but the way he talks, I think it’s a lot.”

“Yes, I’ve thought about that.” Robert was making circles in Luca’s palm with his thumb. “But, well, Argent’s father did give him Lightcliffe. And no matter how much Boq ends up shaking us down for, a pleasure slave is worth much less than a castle.”

Robert pressed his thumb gently to the join of Luca’s wrist. Softly, he said, “Your master doesn’t have to know that I’d choose you over a hundred castles.”

Luca didn’t know how to respond to that except to reach for Robert’s cock, but Robert had made it clear that wasn’t allowed. Luca wasn’t worth a hundred castles; he wasn’t even worth one. _Not worth anything, hole. Not even the time I spent making you a little less useless._

But—_You’re worth everything. _That’s what Robert had told him last time. Luca had no context for understanding that, there was no place for those words in his world, but Robert had said them, and that meant they must be true.

Robert’s hand left Luca’s then, and for a horrible moment he thought he was being punished—punished for not responding, for not saying the right thing, he never said the right thing, so _stupid_—but then Robert was giving him yet another brown paper package with food inside.

“Here, try one of these roast beef sandwiches,” said Robert. “They’re delicious. And full of—iron, I think? Some sort of vitamin, anyway.”

Vitamins were clearly very important to Robert, whatever they were. Luca unwrapped the sandwich and bit into it. The flavor was rich, gamy, with a ferrous aftertaste. It took him a moment to recognize it.

“Oh, this is _meat!_”

Robert laughed.

“Of course. It’s beef. From a cow.” Then paused. “When was the last time you had meat?”

“That last winter solstice, when you brought me some in a napkin,” said Luca. “Lamb, I think you said it was? And there was fig jelly, too, and cinnamon bread, and a whole potato.”

“That’s right! Good memory, sweetheart. Better only have a few bites of that sandwich, then. Meat can make you sick if you haven’t had any in a long time.”

“Yes, Robert.” Luca hesitated, then asked in a rush, “Would it be all right if I keep some for Asher? Only I know he misses meat, he’s always complaining—I mean, he talks about missing it, so. I could give him the rest of this sandwich, I’ve already eaten some of it, so I don’t think you’d want the rest—unless you do, it’s yours if you do—”

“Luca, I’m not going to take your sandwich,” said Robert. “You can give it to whoever you want. I assumed you would just keep whatever food we don’t eat.”

Luca’s breath caught. There were still four sandwiches left, and two packets of the nutty, buttery, wonderful biscuits Robert called shortbread. Even if Robert ate most of it (and that was his right, he could eat all of it if he wanted to, he could force Luca to watch as he threw it away and make him beg for permission to eat it out of the trash)—even then, it was still more than Luca and Asher usually ate in a week.

“Thank you," he said fervently. "Thank you, Robert.”

“It’s nothing,” said Robert with a shrug. “I like feeding you. Who’s Asher?”

“He’s my page. Sort of like an apprentice, so he can learn how to please.”

“Ah. Would this be the sullen boy who fetched me backstage the other night?”

“Yes. He’s—well, he’s still not very good at pleasing.”

“I noticed,” said Robert with an ironic quirk of his brow.

“He’s debt-bound,” said Luca, looking down at the sandwich. “His father sold him to cover the money he owed on some bad loans. His contract is only for five years, but at the rate he’s going—”

Luca didn’t want to think about what might happen to Asher at the rate he was going.

“He wants to go home," he said quietly. "I think he thinks that if he fails badly enough, they’ll let him.” Luca took a deep breath and forced himself to smile. “But he’ll learn.”

“Like you did?” said Robert.

There was an edge of sadness in his voice, though Luca couldn't imagine why.

“Asher’s nothing like me," said Luca. "He’s brave. He fights. I never did.”

“You are brave, Luca,” Robert said softly. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

Luca closed his eyes. He didn’t deserve that. He wasn’t brave, not even a little. He was a coward. He was Master Boq’s dog.

“Robert, I have to tell you something.” Then, as if begging would make any difference, “Please don’t leave. Even if you’re angry, you can hit me—you _should _hit me, punish me, anything, only don’t leave, _please_ don’t leave—”

Robert grabbed Luca’s hands before they could fly up to tangle in his hair again.

“I won’t leave, sweetheart. And I won’t punish you. Just tell me.”

Luca took a deep breath, then said in a rush, “Master Boq asked about you. He always does, with the important clients—we’re supposed to find out things, personal things, as much as we can, and report back to him. There are people he answers to—I think they pay him, I don’t know. His contacts, he calls them. They’re interested in you, in your past. In your grandfather.”

He searched Robert’s face for signs of fury, betrayal, disappointment.

“I didn’t tell him, I swear, I _swear _I didn’t tell him—”

“I believe you,” said Robert, as if it were that easy.

“He can’t make me say anything. I would never tell your secrets, Robert, not ever. I’d bite off my tongue first. Spies used to do that in the War of the White Sea when they were caught,” he added, in case Robert thought he was making it up.

“And where did you learn about that?” said Robert, grinning.

“From a book.”

“Of course.”

Robert took Luca’s hand again, thumb circling absently.

“What would happen if you told your master nothing?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Luca, disguising his shudder in a shrug. Boq could have Sark whip him, cut him, turn him over to the Pig, and he wouldn’t say a word.

“It matters to me,” said Robert firmly. “I won’t have you hurt.”

It took all Luca’s willpower to keep from climbing into Robert’s lap and throwing his arms around his neck like a child. Luca had never known why Robert was so good to him, only that he’d done nothing to deserve it. It would make sense if Robert was fucking him—he wouldn’t want Luca ugly with bruises, or so torn that he couldn’t take cock—but he wasn’t, he wouldn’t, and still, _still_, he wanted Luca to be safe. If Robert wasn’t going to fuck him, then the least Luca could do—the only thing he could do—was to keep Master Boq from using Robert like he used his whores.

“When people ask your grandfather who you were before he took you in,” said Luca slowly, “what does he tell them?”

“Nobody would dare ask my grandfather that. But before I went to University, he told me that if anyone tried to pry, I should tell them that I was at school in Baden-Schwab. He started a rumor that my mother was a minor princess from Lübeck—nothing that could be traced back to him, just a lie for people to tell each other until it’s circulated Highcourt enough to sound something like the truth.”

There was a note in Robert’s voice—withering and wistful all at once—that reminded Luca of when Robbie used to talk about his real mother. Fanny Blackpot wasn’t a Lübeckin princess but a working girl from Docktown too strung out to stop her pimp from fighting Robbie like an animal. She’d only ever used her son to squeeze money from his father and then dumped him with her sister when he started making trouble, but still, Robbie would bloody his knuckles to defend her.

That thought made Luca look down at Robert’s knuckles. They were even thicker and more scarred than Robbie’s, but his hands were just as gentle.

Impulsively, Luca took Robert’s hand and brought it to his mouth. He brushed Robert’s knuckles across his lips. They tasted of smoke and ink. The rough of his callouses made Luca yearn for the rasp of Robert’s stubble against his chin.

Luca heard Robert’s breath catch. He cupped Luca’s face, stroking a thumb over his cheek. Luca wondered if Robert wanted to kiss him. If he could tell how desperately Luca wished he would.

But Luca had already offered Robert his mouth—offered the one thing it was actually good for, which was nothing like so sweet and wholly undeserved as kissing—and Robert had rejected it. He’s kissed Luca after, but that was probably just to calm him, like you’d gentle any other animal by stroking its nose.

Anyway, it was one thing for Luca to open for Robert’s lips and tongue, but wholly another for him to take Robert’s mouth as if he were the free man and Robert the slave. Luca wasn’t brave enough for that. He had never been brave at all, really, whatever Robert wanted to think.

The moment passed. Robert dropped Luca’s chin with a half-smile that was almost apologetic. Luca couldn’t bring himself to let go of Robert’s hand. He traced the crease of his palm, trying to remember what they’d been talking about before he’d let himself be distracted. Right: Lübeck.

“If a man from Lübeck was having me, what would he say when he came?” Luca asked.

Robert was confused for a moment. Then his expression smoothed into a wicked grin.

“If a man from Lübeck got that lucky, I imagine he’d be moved to scandalous language. It’s an excellent tongue for swearing in.”

Luca squeezed his hand.

“Teach me?”

“_Feck schönder aussenhuren_.”

Master Boq frowned.

“_Feck schönder aussenhuren?_”

“Yes, Master,” said Luca, pressing his thumbs into the arch of Master Boq’s foot. “That’s what the lord said when he reached his pleasure. There was more, if you’d like me to—”

“No, that’s quite enough.” Master Boq drummed his fingers on the desk. “Cursing in Lübeckin. Now, that is interesting. Did he say anything after?”

“Just that I reminded him of a drink. _Eiswein_. It’s sweet, he said, and it makes him feel like—well, like how I make him feel.”

That last part had been Robert’s invention. He’d told Luca that it wasn’t even a lie.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Master Boq chuckled. “You’ve done well, little Bird. Your master is very pleased with you.”

Luca felt sick at the burst of happiness that always accompanied those words. _Such a good dog_. He dug his fingers into his master’s foot, trying to exorcise the ghost of Robert’s hand.

Master Boq kicked Luca away and made a deft gesture: a flick of the fingers up, then to the side. _Stand. Undress_.

Luca rose, letting the thin cloth fall from his hips. Master Boq grabbed his waist and pulled him in to stand between his legs.

“I hope you hadn’t forgotten our appointment, little Bird,” Master Boq murmured, hands running over Luca’s ass. “I’d hate to think that Lord Argent’s bastard had so distracted you from your duties.”

Luca forced himself to smile, to lean into the touch.

“Of course not, Master.” He brushed his lips against Master Boq’s ear. “Please take me, sir. I’ve been so hungry for you.”

Master Boq wormed his fingers into the cleft of Luca’s ass.

“Is this what you were hungry for?”

Luca pushed back against him, moaning, and he laughed.

“Little slut. Go on, then. Prepare yourself. I’ll expect you in my bedroom.”

Preparing himself for his master meant flushing out his ass with cold water so he’d be tight and slicking up with lube so he’d be wet. It meant draping his neck and waist with gaudy gold chains, the ones that would make a lot of noise so Master Boq could think he was fucking his slave hard and feel like a man. Luca rubbed kohl around his eyes and carmine on his lips and pinched the inside of his wrist in the exact place where Robert’s thumb had pressed until an indigo bruise bloomed under the skin.

When he looked in the mirror, he saw a tired old whore.

_I’d choose you over a hundred castles. _That had probably been a joke that Luca was too stupid to understand.

When Luca entered the bedroom, Master Boq was lounging on his white silk sheets in a canary-colored robe that didn’t quite close over his paunch. There was a glass of sherry in his hand. Luca had the perverse urge to knock it over and watch the stain spread like blood.

Master Boq gave Luca the signal to approach the bed. Lazily, he pulled open his robe. His cock was soft, the tip just visible under the heavy hang of his belly.

“I’ll have your mouth first,” he said, tucking an arm behind his head. “Make it slow and wet, and don’t forget my balls.”

Luca knelt on the bed between his master’s legs. He could already feel himself leaving his body. It didn’t matter; he could suck cock by muscle memory. All the man ever needed was his mouth, anyway.

Luca came back to himself when Master Boq kicked his thigh.

“That’s enough, slut. Turn around and fuck yourself on it.”

Luca pulled off with a wet pop. He straddled his master, took the spit-slick cock in hand and angled his hips so that the head entered him. He sank down, tightening around the shaft as it slid inside. When he was fully impaled, Luca leaned forward, palms against the bed for leverage. He began to move, shallowly at first, then picking up the pace as Master Boq urged him faster.

It was better, being used like this. Luca could control the depth, the angle. He didn’t have to look at the man’s face or arrange his own in a way the man would like. He could go blank. He could drift away.

It wasn’t long before Master Boq was hissing oaths, pelvis twitching up to bury himself deeper. Close, then. Luca arched his back so that his master slid in completely, then reached down and cupped his balls. It only took a gentle tug and he was bucking up, cursing, fingers digging into Luca’s hips as he spilled.

Luca waited to move until Master Boq slapped his ass. He knelt forward, careful not to put unwelcome pressure on the softening cock inside him. When it slipped free, he leaned over so his master could see the cum leaking out of him.

“Mm. What a nice well-used cunt.” Master Boq probed Luca with a finger, idly shoving some of his semen back inside. “Did you enjoy yourself, little one?”

Luca was glad that he was facing away. He didn’t have to force an expression, just sound enthusiastic.

“Yes, Master. I live to please you. Thank you, sir, for using me.”

Master Boq slapped his ass again.

“You’re welcome, slut. Now clean me.”

As Luca licked drying semen from his master’s foreskin, the thought came to him—not connected to anything in particular—that Robert had given him a book. A difficult book, full of words he didn’t know and ideas he wasn’t smart enough to understand, but a book all the same, and one he didn’t even have to pay for. A book from Robert.

That was something to hold on to as Master Boq shoved Luca’s head down. Like a rope. No—a ladder. It could take him somewhere else.


	6. Chapter 6

Aside from teaching Luca how to read, Robert had never attacked any project with the singular focus and determination that he did studying for quals. It was immediately clear that he’d been far too optimistic about his ability to pass with the same ease he always had his classes. A quick memory and a knack for inference would only get him so far. This test required bone-deep knowledge.

Robert begged off sparring with Francis and Dalton in order to stay up with Val in the library, bent over books of law too ancient and unwieldy to check out. He even started going to class, to Val’s combined relief and alarm.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Fitz?” Val asked more than once.

As for what Hugo thought about Robert’s sudden transformation, he was barely in the flat enough to notice. That wasn’t entirely unprecedented; Hugo always had a girl on the line, or several, and Robert was vaguely aware that he had friends outside of school. But there was something off about the hours Hugo was keeping, the furtiveness with which he answered Val’s perfectly innocent questions about what he’d been up to.

Robert had been raised by criminals. He knew when a man had something to hide. He just wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what exactly it was Hugo was hiding.

He found out anyway when he tossed Hugo’s room for the _Blackstone Commentaries_. There on his desk, not even hidden, was a pamphlet. Robert knew immediately what sort of pamphlet, even before seeing KENEVER: TRUE KING OF SOLAS printed on the cover. The sort that could get a man taken apart by the interrogator’s knife and the pieces of him strung up in Bromley Square.

Robert’s immediate instinct was to burn it. He fumbled out his lighter and caught the corner with a lick of flame. Then—“Oh, scald the damn _land!_”—he threw the pamphlet on the floor and stamped it out.

He didn’t know what instinct drove him to save the stupid, dangerous thing. The same instinct, he supposed, that directed him to tuck it into the inner pocket of waistcoat.

He located the _Commentaries_, half-buried under a pile of overdue work. There was a half-smoked pack of cigarettes on the windowsill, which Robert confiscated as restitution for emotional distress.

When Robert went to Val’s room to collect him for class, he was face-down on his desk snoring. They’d been up all night working through a particularly tricky bit of maritime law. Val had clearly taken his last few meals in his room; plates and cups were scattered on every available surface. Yesterday’s paper was spread over the desk. From the stains, Val had apparently been using it as a tablecloth.

Robert made a point of never reading the newspaper, but Hugo’s stupid pamphlet seemed to exert a prickly, insistent pressure against his chest. Robert knew that he wasn’t being watched, but still, he tried to look disinterested as he looked over the headlines.

He needn’t have bothered. It was nothing but the usual propaganda. Kenever’s beastly Dogs of Guye waylaid an innocent merchant’s caravan; their deaths were avenged by the patriots of the Royal Regiment. Hip hip hooray.

Val stirred and stretched. He wasn’t surprised to see Robert; they were in and out of each other’s rooms all the time. Yet another reason Hugo should’ve known better than to leave that bloody pamphlet sitting out.

“What do you make of it?” asked Robert without looking up from the paper.

Val cracked his neck.

“What do I make of what?”

“What’s happening on the border with Guye.”

“Kenever’ll be defeated by this time next year,” said Val, yawning. “Isn’t that what everyone says?”

“Yes, but they were saying it last year, too. And the year before.”

“I didn’t think you cared about politics, Robert. Isn’t that Hugo’s area?”

_You have no idea_, Robert thought.

Aloud, he said, “I suppose it’s part of a gentleman’s education, isn’t it? Knowing what’s going on in the world?”

Val rubbed the back of his neck.

“I wouldn’t know. My father’s a grocer. You can take the paper if you like, Fitz, but only on the condition you don’t try to talk to me about current events. I get quite enough of that when I’m home.”

“I take it your parents don’t use their newspapers as napkins?”

“Gods, I wish they would,” Val groaned. Then, quickly, he added, “Not that they’re sympathizers, of course. Just, well—romantics, I suppose. My father’s one of those who talks about Luimnech Lough like it happened yesterday.”

“Yes, my Aunt Mina had a print of the Battle of Red Beck tacked up in her bedroom.”

Robert didn’t add that Aunt Mina had been half in love with Kenever. She’d cried for weeks when he was exiled to Guye. Robert hadn’t known whether or not she was a sympathizer—hadn’t wanted to know, really—but even as a ten-year old boy with no understanding of politics, he’d had his suspicions.

“You know, Fitz, that’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned having family,” said Val, propping his chin on his hand. “I didn’t think you had any relatives.”

Robert went hot and cold. Stupid to bring up Aunt Mina like that. Argent would be furious if he knew. But Val wasn’t looking at Robert smugly, as Adrian would be, knowing that he’d scored a point. He looked—well, happy. As though he was glad to find that Robert was human after all.

Robert ruffled Val’s hair.

“Keep it under your hat, then.”

_The Royal Pelagic Body is authorized to promulgate guidelines governing fair use of all waterways subject to the Channel Law of Charles XCII, as amended_. _In the event of fraudulent conveyance by means of a waterway under the discretion of the Royal Pelagic Body, a public hearing is waived pursuant to section 1043(e) of the Civic Charter of Lyonesse on the grounds that it would not serve the public peace…_

The man thrusting into Luca interrupted his internal recitation by coming. Luca bore down automatically, rolling his hips. Kyrkos shuddered and made a noise like he was dying. He collapsed onto Luca’s back. Lady, he was heavy. His beard felt like steel wool as he dropped kisses along Luca’s spine.

“Ah, lad, you’re a fiend,” Kyrkos groaned. “You’ll be the death of me.”

He flipped Luca around and rolled over so that Luca was on top, straddling him. A moment too late, Luca remembered that he should have some expression on his face—naughty, slutty, that was what Kyrkos liked—but fortunately the man was too busy running his hands over Luca’s body to notice. Kyrkos pushed two fingers inside Luca’s hole, feeling the slick path he’d made for himself.

“How is it that you can take so much cock and still have such a tight little ass?” he sighed.

It wasn’t a question that required an answer. Luca doubted he was that tight, anyway; Kyrkos was his fourth client of the day. Still, he tried to look appreciative as he clenched around the invading fingers. Men didn’t have to say nice things to a whore, especially not one they’d already used.

With a pleased groan, Kyrkos pulled his fingers out and wiped them on Luca’s thigh. Luca took the man’s hairy hand and brought it to his mouth to lick clean. Under the familiar tang of semen was another flavor: peppery, metallic. Gunpowder.

“Ah, that’s a picture.” Kyrkos leaned back, grinning. “I just hope the whores in Akleio are as gifted as you.”

Luca brought Kyrkos’s wet fingers to his nipple.

“Akleio, sir?”

“Mm.” Kyrkos rolled the nub between thumb and forefinger. “The King’s got business in Thesselon. I’ll be gone a month, maybe two. I hope you won’t be lonely without me.”

Luca pouted.

“I _will_ be lonely, sir. No one fucks me like you do.”

Kyrkos made a pleased growl. He dragged Luca down for a deep, claiming kiss.

“How much time do I have left?” he panted, reaching between Luca’s legs.

Luca gasped as three fingers breached him at once.

“T-twenty minutes, sir.”

Kyrkos flipped Luca over. His back hit the bed hard enough to knock the breath from him. He didn’t even have time to inhale before Kyrkos was pushing his knees to his shoulders.

“Then I’ll have one more for the road.”

After Kyrkos had fucked his way through another orgasm and departed with a promise to return as soon as he was able, Luca scrambled to scrub down and turn the sheets over. When he checked the time, he only had five minutes until his next client. That was cutting it fine, but the book was under the bed, and there were so many pages still to read, and Luca was weak.

He made himself keep half an eye on the clock. It was difficult; Robert’s book was very complicated, and Luca could only puzzle out the meaning of each sentence by paying close attention. It helped to remember that this was a book of rules, and it therefore existed in relationship to everything else he’d ever read or heard about the world.

Luca found it deeply satisfying to see codes and instructions laid out with such well-ordered precision. There had always been so many rules governing his life, but no one had ever written them down for him. He wished they had. Then he wouldn’t have had to be punished so much.

Luca tucked the book back under the mattress with one minute left. When the door opened for the next client, he was waiting on his knees with his arms folded behind his back.

Seeing who it was, Luca didn’t even have to force his smile. Lord Fulke, as old and thin and paper-dry as the pages of Robert’s book.

“Father of Hosts, my dear, you grow lovelier each time I see you,” said Fulke, leaning on his cane.

“Thank you, my lord. May I take your coat?”

“Such hospitality.”

As he divested Lord Fulke of his overthings, Luca saw how stiffly he held himself, his posture hitched unnaturally to one side.

“How is your back today, my lord?”

“All the better for you asking. I do seem to have developed a bit of an ache just here.” Fulke gestured to the place almost apologetically. “My wife blames the hours I spend hunched over my desk. Perhaps you could…?”

“Of course, my lord. I’d be glad to.”

Luca helped Fulke out of his vest and shirt and onto the bed, resting on his stomach. He saw the trouble spot immediately: a pinched muscle keeping Fulke’s shoulder-blade in torsion. Luca took a vial of oil from the bedside table and warmed it between his hands before straddling Fulke’s narrow hips. It was always so strange to be over a man like this, as though Luca was the one who was going to—no, he couldn’t even think it.

Luca slid his forearms down Fulke’s back, using the light, blunt pressure to relax him. Then he went to work with his hands, carefully loosening tight muscles until Fulke was slack enough for him to begin on the knots in his bad shoulder. When the tender point released, Fulke moaned.

“Oh, Father of Hosts, that’s glorious. You have the hands of an angel, my dear.”

Usually when men told Luca that, it was because he was doing something else with his hands. It felt good to be useful for something that wasn’t being fucked.

But the one sort of pleasure gave way to the other, as it always did with Fulke. When he turned over, his cock was making a concerted effort at lifting up from his belly. Luca took the half-soft organ in his hands, coaxing it to fullness before bringing it to his mouth. Fulke liked it when Luca held his cock in his throat. Not sucking; just being a warm wet hole for him to fill.

Fulke sighed, his hand coming to rest on Luca’s hair. He stroked softly, murmuring sweet nonsense. Luca leaned into the touch, shivery with gratitude. Fulke was always so gentle with him, so kind. Luca could stay like this for hours.

But it was only a few minutes before Fulke went soft. Luca pulled back, working the cockhead with his soft palate. When that didn’t work, he used his tongue, laving every inch of skin before moving lower to trace the seam of Fulke’s balls. He almost sobbed in frustration when Fulke pushed him away.

“Please, my lord, let me try again, I can do better, I can do anything you want—”

Fulke waved his hand.

“Really, my dear, there’s no need for that. You are the most beautiful boy in Lyonesse, but you’re not a miracle worker.”

Luca smiled weakly.

“I would work miracles for you, my lord.”

Fluke chuckled. He gestured for Luca to lay down next to him.

“You’d make me a young man again, with a cock like a battering ram?” Fulke stroked Luca’s chest, absently pinching a nipple. “Well, perhaps I’d thank you for it. Or perhaps not; those were, as I remember, rather exhausting days.”

He ran his hand lower, over Luca’s stomach, between his thighs. Luca opened his legs immediately, but Fulke only kissed his forehead and rested his hand on Luca’s hip.

“Besides,” Fulke continued, “I can leave the work of young men to my son Samuel now. This is his second year at University. A more dutiful boy I couldn’t have asked for. Indeed, I sometimes think he’s a little _too_ studious. No boys or girls for him, just his books. I’ve offered to make him an appointment here—or even with a woman if he’d prefer; there are places where the girls use those Erminian sheaths, for all they’re illegal. But he says, ‘Father, I haven’t got time. I’m studying for such and such a test, and I have a paper to write.’”

Fulke chuckled fondly. It gave Luca a warm feeling to see the pride on Fulke’s face. He looked like Luca’s father used to when he talked about Luca’s brothers.

“At least I don’t have to worry about the family line,” Fulke went on. “I look at poor Argent with that bastard ward of his and give thanks to Melita that _my_ son won’t die a wanton degenerate and leave me without any real heirs.” He sighed. “I do worry, though, about the influences at the University nowadays. One does hear things about seditious elements. Sympathizers, even. These Keneverites—they’re like cockroaches, breeding in the dark.”

Luca had gone stiff at the mention of Argent’s ward. He was so tense that when Fulke patted his hip, it took a concerted effort to lean into the touch instead of flinching away.

“How lucky you are, my dear, that you don’t have to worry your pretty head with the dull business of state,” said Fulke.

“Yes, my lord. I’m very lucky.”

“Now. Why don’t you take a look in my vest pocket and see what you find?”

Luca crawled to the foot of the bed, where Fulke’s clothes were folded on an end table. He made a show of shaking out the vest and reaching into the pocket. His fingers closed around a velvet jewelry box. Inside were a pair of earrings: laurel leaves, exquisitely wrought in gold and pearls.

_They’re beautiful, _Luca thought. And then: _I’ll never be allowed to keep them_.

“A Bacchanal present,” said Fulke. “Here, let’s see them on you.”

Luca took off his dangling earrings with their gaudy glass gems and replaced them with the laurel leaves. He pulled back his hair and turned his head from side to side so that Fulke could admire his gift.

“Ah, they were made for you,” said Fulke, settling back in satisfaction. “You honor the gods with your beauty, my dear.”

“Thank you, my lord. You’re too good to me.”

Fulke crooked a finger and Luca climbed over the bed to sit astride him. He leaned forward so that the ends of his hair brushed the loose skin of Fulke’s ribs and sunken chest. When Luca rocked his hips back, Fulke’s cock twitched under his ass.

“It seems you can work miracles after all,” said Fulke, raising his eyebrows.

Luca rocked back again, letting Fulke’s cock slide into the cleft of his ass. He could feel the head rubbing against his hole, getting slick with lube. Fulke hissed, gripping Luca’s hips with surprising strength. Luca leaned down, arching his back. He reached back to push his cheeks together, making a tight channel for Fulke to rut into. He couldn’t get hard enough to fuck Luca properly, and his few attempts had ended in disaster, but he seemed to find rubbing off on Luca almost as satisfying as the real thing.

“How does that feel?” Fulke panted. There was a note of pleading in his voice.

In tones of breathless excitement, Luca told Fulke how good it felt. How much he loved it, needed it. How he wanted Fulke’s hard, hot cock all the time. “I dream about it,” Luca said, and it wasn’t even a lie. Before Robert, Luca had often dreamed of being bought by a man too old to hurt him.

Fulke squeezed his eyes shut as he came. He mouthed a name—his wife’s, probably; he called Luca by it sometimes. A little semen dribbled out of his cock. Luca knew from experience that Fulke would be too oversensitive to want it licked up. That was another nice thing about his visits; Luca never had to use his mouth to clean him after.

“What a marvel you are,” Fulke murmured, embracing him. “Truly, my dear, you could bring the dead to life.” He sighed contentedly. “As much as I’d love to bask in the afterglow, I wouldn’t want to keep your next client waiting. Depriving a man of your company would be criminal.”

Luca helped Fulke back into his clothes. There were more layers than last time; it must be getting cold outside. He thought of the snowball Robbie brought him once, a delicate crystal latticework that went to water in his hands. Robbie said that in the winter the snow covered Lyonesse like eiderdown. Maybe when Robert owned him, Luca would be allowed to see it. Maybe he’d even keep Luca in a room with a window so that he could see the sky whenever he wanted.

But no, that was probably too much to hope for.

“Do you know, my dear, I think I shall speak to your master about making an appointment for Samuel after all,” said Fulke as Luca fastened his jabot. “He deserves to enjoy himself.”

Master Boq would like that. He was always exhorting his whores to bring fresh custom to the Harlequin. Maybe he’d even be pleased enough to let Luca keep the earrings.

When Luca opened the door for Fulke, one of the house slaves was running down the hall. That was odd; the only people who should be up here during service hours were clients and Bagoas.

Fulke furrowed his brow.

“Is something amiss?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, my lord,” said Luca.

Another house slave went running by, trailed by one of the low-ranked boys. Eamon, that was his name. Under normal circumstances he never would have never dared set foot on this floor. Luca grabbed him and half-shoved him at Lord Fulke.

“Eamon, will you please see his lordship out?”

Eamon bowed hastily.

“Yes, of course. An honor, my lord.”

As they departed, Eamon cast a speaking look over his shoulder—eyes wide, mouth set in a grim line. He jerked his head in the direction the house slaves had been running in. Tris’s room.

Luca wasn’t allowed to leave his room during service hours. But as long as he was touching the doorframe, that didn’t count as leaving, did it? He inched as far down the hall as he could with one foot still planted on the threshold and craned his neck to see into Tris’s room.

He’d almost managed it when the Beast emerged, ducking his head to clear the doorway. When he saw Luca, he grinned like a wolf catching sight of a rabbit in a trap.

Luca froze. The small voice of reason told him that the Beast couldn’t do anything. Luca was protected; Robert had paid good money to make sure. But the Beast was so close, it would only take a moment for him to cross the hall and push Luca against the wall and shove his cock into him dry and Luca would only have himself to blame because _he should never have left his room_.

The Beast said something to someone inside of Tris’s room. The next moment, a trim man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a ruined face stepped into the hallway.

Luca stumbled back until he hit the doorframe. He should kneel, he knew, the Pig was a lord and it was against the rules to be standing without permission. But Luca could not make himself move.

The Pig was watching him, mouth twisted into something like a smile. The pox had taken most of the flesh from his face, leaving behind a wasteland of craters and blistered scar tissue. He wore a brass nose attached the bridge of his spectacles to hide the gaping hole beneath. There was padding under the placket of his breeches for the same reason. The pox attacked soft tissue; it had taken almost everything between his legs. He didn’t even have enough left to rub on Luca the way Fulke did.

_And yet, contrary to popular opinion, I can still feel pleasure, _the Pig had said during their first session._ This, for instance_—and he’d turned the key of the metal thing inside of Luca so that it opened like a claw—_this I find immensely pleasing. _

And he had seemed pleased when Luca screamed. He was even more pleased with the noises Luca made when the Beast fucked him after. And when the Beast shoved his fist into Luca past the wrist, the Pig’s breath had stuttered, his eyes rolled back, and he sighed with such deep satisfaction that it was as though he’d come just from watching.

_You are beautiful like this, whore_. _We are going to have so much fun with you_…

Luca tasted iron. He realized distantly that he’d bitten his lip. His fingers were in his hair, yanking strands loose.

_Robert doesn’t want you doing that_, Luca reminded himself. He didn’t like it when Luca hurt himself. He’d said so, and that meant it was a rule now.

Somehow the thought of Robert broke the spell. Luca could move again. He backed into his room on dangerously weak legs. The moment the door shut behind him, he felt a wave of nausea so acute he doubled over. He almost didn’t make it to the basin before throwing up.

Once his stomach had emptied itself, Luca washed out his mouth and rebraided his hair with trembling hands. His bitten lip was already puffing up; he could tell that sucking cock would be agony. At least the men always liked it when his mouth was red and swollen. They took it as an invitation.

Luca realized that he was rocking back and forth on his knees. He forced himself to be still. _Whereas capital offenses are deemed the gravest threat to the public peace, any person suspected of such a crime is subject to questioning by agents of His Majesty, his guilt being thereby established; the methods of which, at the interrogator’s discretion, include, but are not limited to, the excoriation of the body…_

When the door opened, Luca thought for one awful upside-down moment that it was the Pig. But no, it was only Delegate Parry, late as always, his red hands still reeking from the canned fish he’d had for dinner. Luca was so relieved that he didn’t even have to force himself to respond to the man’s touches with the required eagerness. He made Parry come twice, first in his ass and then all over his face. He licked up the spill as though it was honey and smiled so wide his split lip bled.

After the end of evening service, Luca went to find Bagoas. There was a bar of light under the door to his room; Luca could hear the scratch of pen on paper. He knocked lightly enough that Bagoas could pretend not to hear if he didn’t want a visitor.

From the other side of the door came a sigh. Then, “Come in, Luca.”

Luca opened the door and slipped inside. Bagoas was bent over his massive accounting ledger. His elegant face was drawn. There were deep circles under his eyes.

“I suppose you’re here for the gossip?” Bagoas said without looking up.

“Yes, but you don’t have to tell me.”

Bagoas rolled his eyes.

“Gods forbid you hear some rubbish secondhand. I know how the boys talk.”

“Not to me,” Luca blurted out. He heard the longing in his voice and flushed.

“No, I suppose not,” said Bagoas, looking at him with something like pity. “Still, I may as well tell you. Councilor Bors and his slave broke Tris’s leg.”

Luca’s hands flew to his mouth. He could feel the echo of it in his own body: the dry snap of bone, the white-hot lance of pain. And for it to be the Beast who did it while the Pig watched…Luca couldn’t imagine. It must have been horrible.

“Poor Tris,” he breathed. “Is the master going to sell him?”

“I think I talked him out of it. Tris brings in a considerable amount of money when he’s not incapacitated. And Bors has paid for a doctor.” Bagoas smiled bitterly. “Indeed, my lord has been quite lavishly generous in atoning for the mishap.”

“B-but—” Luca swallowed, tried again. “But, sir, if he damaged someone—damaged _Tris_, he’s second whore, surely the master wouldn’t let him—”

“Bors is a Council Lord with a bottomless purse, Luca. Nothing short of a death will bar him from the Harlequin.” Bagoas sighed. “And even then…”

“I saw him kill someone once,” Luca blurted out. “The Pig, I mean. Another boy at the fuckhouse. Master Jorin made me watch. He was wearing a mask, but his scars—I saw his scars.”

“Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if Councilor Bors has sent any number of boys to the bottom of Marlebone Quay.” Bagoas rubbed his forehead. “But this is nothing for you to dwell upon, Luca. You’re first whore, and protected by the clientage of Argent’s ward. Besides, I’ve convinced the master that Bors and his slave should only be allowed to make appointments with the lowest-ranked boys from now on.” His mouth tightened. “At least until they’ve proved themselves capable of some semblance of control.”

Luca felt his stomach plummet.

“But sir, _Asher_—”

“I told you not to get attached.”

“Oh, but _please_—I’m first whore now, there must be something I can do. I’ll do _anything_—”

“Can you make him obedient? Sweet-tempered? Respectful? Can you get him to stop hiding when he’s supposed to be working? Convince him to charm the clients instead of showing his teeth? To please them instead of lying there like a dead fish?”

“I’m trying,” said Luca in a small voice.

“Either you haven’t tried hard enough or that boy is a lost cause.”

“But—”

“Keep pushing, Luca, and I guarantee that you will not enjoy the results.”

Luca’s teeth closed on his lip before he could stop himself. The split throbbed. Lady, what was wrong with him? He knew better than to talk back. Becoming first whore really had spoiled him. Or perhaps it was Robert, treating him so much better than he deserved.

_Forgetting your place, hole? I taught you better than that._

“I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered. “I won’t question you again.”

“Good.” Then, with the clear intention of changing the subject, Bagoas said, “Those earrings are new.”

Luca touched the fine gold leaves, pearls smooth under his fingertips. He nodded.

“Here, let me see them.”

Bagoas took Luca’s chin, tipping his head to the light.

“Beautiful work. A favor from Lord Fulke, I take it?”

“Yes, sir. He’s very generous.”

“Yes, he’s quite fond of you.” Bagoas let go of his chin and sat back. “Luca, you know that these are far too valuable for a slave to wear.”

Luca dropped his eyes. Of course he knew. Stupid, wanting to keep them. Slaves weren’t allowed to want things. This was a lesson; he should be grateful.

Bagoas sighed, as though taking the earrings was as difficult for him as giving up them was for Luca.

“Better give them to me now, so you don’t get attached. I’ll take them to the master tomorrow.”

Luca unhooked the earrings and placed them in Bagoas’s outstretched palm.

“Yes, Bagoas. Thank you, sir. I’m sorry for—” _For being vain and greedy and willful and stupid_. “I’m sorry.”

Bagoas waved a hand. “Go. Try to sleep. You have your appointment with Fitzrobert tomorrow; we can’t have you falling asleep while his lordship takes his pleasure.”

The prospect of seeing Robert so soon made losing the earrings seem ridiculously unimportant. Luca tried not to let his excitement show. If Bagoas found out that Robert was more than just another client—Luca didn’t want to think about it.

The last thing Luca saw before he closed the door was Bagoas with his eyes shut, massaging his temples.


	7. Chapter 7

When Robert arrived at the Harlequin—only ten minutes early this time; he took the long route on purpose—Luca was on his feet, pacing. His fingers were moving rapidly, twisting a braid into his hair. Seeing Robert, he went loose with relief, face lighting up with a smile that was no less incandescent for his bruised lip.

“It’s you,” he said, looking at Robert as though he’d brought the sun with him.

“Were you expecting, perhaps, a tall, dark, and handsome stranger?” said Robert, quirking a brow. “I’m sorry to disappoint. If it’s any consolation, my pockets are filled with chocolate biscuits.”

Luca laughed shakily. Then in the next moment he was in Robert’s arms, face buried in his chest. Having Luca pressed against him like this, it was like no time had passed at all. Robert kissed the top of his head, the shell of his ear, his clenched, quivering jaw. He was drawn as tight and tense as a wire.

“Sweetheart, what’s happened?” Robert asked gently, tipping Luca’s face up.

Luca shook his head.

“It’s nothing. It’s not important.”

“If it’s bothering you, then it’s important. Let’s sit on the bed and you can tell me about it while you eat a chocolate biscuit.”

As Robert had hoped, Luca loved chocolate biscuits even more than strawberries. He ate with an expression of utter rapture, enchanted by the magic of cocoa and sugar.

“Not poison, then?” said Robert, grinning. “Tastes all right?”

“_Yes,”_ said Luca fervently. “I didn’t know anything could taste this good.” Then, with deep sincerity, he added, “I think that gods must eat chocolate biscuits.”

Robert laughed.

“If I was a god, I’d eat nothing but whole suckling kid and smoke Dokhari tobacco in a pipe as long as my arm.”

Luca smiled at the picture.

“Would you let me be your cupbearer?”

“Like Ganymene? No, sweetheart. You’d sit at my right hand.”

Luca ducked his head to hide the flush in his cheeks. He was dangerously adorable, and Robert had to remind himself to behave.

After coaxing Luca into finishing a second biscuit and part of a third, Robert pulled Luca into his lap. So strange that he could be all muscle and bone, yet still so soft and sweetly yielding. Luca hugged Robert’s neck, head tucked under his chin. Robert buried his nose in Luca’s hair, imprinting the scent in his memory. His hand fit so perfectly on the hollow of Luca’s back, as though it had been designed to rest just there.

“Now,” said Robert, stroking Luca’s hair back from his temples. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

And Luca did—hesitantly at first, then in a rush, as though something had broken open inside of him. He told Robert about Asher, who was reckless and disobedient and made Luca laugh even when there was so little in their lives to laugh about.

“He doesn’t even _try_ to be good,” said Luca, fear warring with admiration. “That’s why he’s still low-ranked and gets the worst clients. That’s why I have to protect him. Only I _can’t_, not from the Pig. He gets whatever he wants, every horrible thing, and I can’t _do_ anything—”

“The Pig?”

Luca took a shuddering breath. Robert caught his hands before they could tangle in his hair. Luca looked horrified, as though Robert had caught him committing a sin.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, Robert, I know I’m not allowed to hurt myself.”

So he’d taken that as a rule instead of a request. Robert should’ve seen that coming.

“You’re talking about a client, I take it?” he said. “Someone you’re afraid of?”

Luca swallowed painfully, then nodded. When he spoke, it was like he was dragging the words out of himself.

“Do you remember when I told you about the place Master Crawley sold me, the bad place, and I told you that Master Jorin, he made me watch—when the man, the one who bought a death, when he—with the other boy—and it was _hours_, and the blood, the smell of it, I can still—I can still—”

Luca was on the verge of hyperventilating. Robert rubbed slow circles on his back, trying to ground Luca in the here and now, to bring him back from the nightmare that memory had returned him to.

“You’re here, sweetheart, you’re with me. It’s over, you’re here, you’re never going back. Just breathe.”

Luca exhaled shakily.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—I’m sorry.”

“You don’t ever have to apologize for being scared,” said Robert, squeezing Luca’s shoulder for emphasis.

Luca shook his head.

“It’s stupid. It’s over, and it wasn’t even me being hurt. Not that time.” He looked away, jaw tight. “Anyway, it isn’t like I did anything to stop it.”

“You couldn’t have stopped it, Luca. You would’ve only been hurt yourself.”

It was clear that Luca didn’t take much comfort in that thought. Robert had to admit that he probably wouldn’t either. It certainly offered him no solace to think that while Luca was being forced to watch another boy die, Robbie had probably been in bed with some pretty nobody whose name he forgot as soon as he came. Fields of hell, there weren’t enough chocolate biscuits in the world to make up for all the ways he’d failed his boy.

Luca took another shaky breath, then forced himself to continue.

“He wore a mask, the man who did the killing. All I saw were his hands. And I heard his voice, because he talked the whole time he was doing it. But then I was brought to the Harlequin, and the first time I saw the Pig, I knew it was him. And he knew me, too. He laughed, said he didn’t think I’d survive but he was glad I did. He was glad I’d survived because that meant he could—he could make me regret it. And he did. That time and every time after. But then I became first whore and you paid the protection fee and I thought it was over, only Master Boq gave my appointments to Tris and the Pig had the Beast break Tris’s leg—”

“The Beast?”

“He was the satyr on Bacchanal. The Pig is pox-eaten, worse than anyone I’ve ever seen. It took his face, his cock, so he has the Beast. That’s his cock. He uses him to hurt, to fuck—only the hurting, that’s like fucking for him. Better.” Luca shuddered, wrapping his thin arms around himself. “He’s a monster.”

There was only one man Robert knew who was pox-eaten that badly and rich enough to buy whatever dreadful pleasures he desired.

“The man you’re talking about. The Pig. Does he have a brass nose?”

Luca’s eyes went wide.

“_Yes. _Do you know him?”

Robert did know him—not as a creature out of nightmare, but as Lord Bors of the Royal Council. _He’s an exceptional man, once you get past his face_, Argent had said. _You won’t meet anyone more respected in Highcourt, save his majesty and myself. _

Gods, what would Argent say if he knew?

_Nothing, _Robert realized with a jolt. Argent wouldn’t care. Hell, with the way he had the drop on everyone at Highcourt, he was probably already well aware of his associate's proclivities.

“His name is Councilor Bors,” said Robert. “He’s Argent’s colleague. A friend,” he added bitterly, “inasmuch as my grandfather has friends.”

And Robert had _liked _him. That was the worst part. Well, no, everything that had happened to Luca was the worst part. But to think that Bors had made Robert laugh at dinner parties with his dry little bon mots and then strolled down to Paradiso to torture the boy he thought was dead…Robert felt a burning black tide of rage rise within him.

Luca must’ve seen the gleam in Robert’s eyes. He said urgently, “Robert, _don’t_. Please, he’s dangerous, you have to be careful—”

“Boiling fields of hell, sweetheart, I’m not worried about me, I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine, I’m used to it. Used to him. That’s why he likes me so much, he knows I can take it. But Asher—Master Boq is only letting the Pig make appointments with low-ranked boys now, the ones who don’t matter. The ones he can really hurt. And Asher hasn’t risen in the rankings at all_, _he’s still one of the cheapest boys in the house. He’s debt-bound, so they can’t kill him, but there’s a lot they can do that’s not killing him.” He took a shuddering breath. “There’s so much they can do, Robert. You have no idea.”

Clearly Luca was excruciatingly familiar with all the things that Bors and his slave could do short of murder. The black tide rose again, but Robert pushed it down. Vengeance might let him sleep easier, but it would do nothing for Luca.

“I paid the protection fee,” said Robert, to reassure himself as much as Luca. “He can’t touch you now.”

“He wants to buy me,” Luca whispered. Robert could feel how was shivering. “Master Boq won’t let him, I make too much money, but I’m afraid all the time that if I do something wrong—not on purpose, I’m never bad on purpose, but I’m so _stupid_, I always make mistakes, and what if—what if he—”

“I won’t let that happen,” said Robert fiercely. “I’d kill him first.”

Luca rested his head on Robert’s shoulder.

“They’d send you to Absalom,” he said, voice muffled in Robert’s shirt.

“I’d break out and spirit you away.”

Luca’s laugh was half a sob.

“How far do you think we’d get?”

“All the way to Enkaare,” said Robert, stroking his hair. “But we wouldn’t stop there. I’d buy a camel and take you into the desert.”

“I read that the sand rolls all the way to the horizon like a sea of gold,” said Luca, a faraway look in his eye. “The air is so still you can see the dunes move.”

Robert pictured Luca in the gauzy white robes Enkaarans wore, the gold of the sun in his hair.

“It sounds beautiful.”

“But there’s a problem,” said Luca, propping his chin on Robert’s shoulder.

“What’s that?”

“Camels spit.”

Robert laughed.

“Well, that plan’s out, then.”

“They’d find us, anyway,” said Luca wistfully. His face hardened. “And they hamstring runaways in Lyonesse.”

Robert had passed the set of bloodstained hobbles in Marlebone Square a hundred times and never given them any more than a passing thought. Now he imagined Luca chained down, cut into, and felt sick.

Instead of dwelling on that gruesome thought, Robert pressed a kiss to Luca’s temple.

“What can I do to help you protect Asher?”

Luca’s fingers rose to twist a loose braid into his hair—not manic, just thinking.

“What if,” he began, then stopped himself. “But you’ve already been so generous, Robert. I can’t ask you for more.”

Robert was struck with fresh anger at how pathetically little it took for Luca to think him generous. Some food, a kind touch. Gods, but Robert was a monster for wanting to take advantage of that brokenness. For being half-hard even now under the trousers and baggy sweater that he was foresightful enough to armor himself with.

“Just ask,” said Robert, as much a plea as it was an order. _You aren’t the only one who’d do anything, sweetheart._

“If an important client were to take an interest in Asher,” said Luca slowly. “That might—that would help.”

Robert frowned.

“You want me to fuck him?”

“No! Not unless you want to—you can do whatever you want, Robert, anything with anyone, I know that you’re—that I’m—but if you just bought an hour, just an hour, it’ll probably cost less than the food you brought last time, and I’ll—if you let me, I can make it up to you, I can—”

Robert cut that thought off before it veered into forbidden territory.

“Of course I can buy an hour, sweetheart. I can see him every week after I see you. And I won’t,” he added. “Fuck him, that is. I don’t want him that way.”

He knew better than to add that he no longer wanted anyone that way but Luca. And since he couldn’t let himself have Luca, Robert was resigned to being in an exclusive relationship with his hand for the foreseeable future.

“Thank you,” said Luca, slumping back on Robert’s chest. “You’re so good to me, and you won’t even let me pay you back.” Then, fretfully, half to himself, “I don’t know how else to pay you back.”

Robert pressed a chaste kiss to the back of his neck.

“Did you make any headway with that blasted book of statutes?”

“I finished it,” said Luca with a hesitant smile that was very nearly proud.

“’Course you did.” Damn, but Luca was smart. “Do you think you could quiz me?”

Luca could quiz him. Indeed, he quizzed him so methodically and comprehensively that it was clear he’d understood _Nova Statuta _far better than Robert. Even more astonishingly, he seemed to have half-memorized the bloody thing, quoting obscure passages verbatim as easily as reciting a nursery rhyme.

“Scald the land, sweetheart,” said Robert, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a barrister.”

Luca took the compliment with a ducked head and shy smile.

“Sark brings me law books sometimes. He says they’re always in the penny pile at the market because thick gentlemen’s sons keep washing out of University.”

“Sark?”

Luca suddenly became very interested in the pattern of the duvet cover.

“The overseer. We have a sort of—an arrangement. For books.” He picked at a stray thread. “I made it before you. I wouldn’t make it now.” Then, in a small voice, “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” said Robert, trying to keep his tone even. “I just hope this arrangement suits you better.”

“It does,” says Luca fervently. “Oh, it does.”

Robert hesitated. Then he said, “About our arrangement. Can it be expanded to include the asking of advice?”

“Of course. What about?”

“If I tell you, it could…well, implicate you. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

Luca didn’t falter for a moment.

“Tell me.”

Gingerly, as though it might bite, Robert took out the pamphlet and laid it on the bed.

“I found this on my friend Hugo’s desk.”

Luca picked up the pamphlet. Reading the title, his eyes went wide.

“Robert, he could be hanged for having this. Worse than hanged.”

“I know.” He paused before admitting, “I read it.”

“You didn’t! What does it say?”

“More or less what you’d expect. Ademar stole the crown from his uncle Kenever and so on.” He hesitated, then said, “And, look, I shouldn’t even be thinking this, but strictly speaking, they’re not wrong. King Edmund did name his brother heir before he died.”

“But Ademar was Edmund’s son,” said Luca. “I know I don’t know anything about politics, but doesn’t that give Ademar the right to the throne?”

“Yes, that’s the argument the lords made when they exiled Kenever to Guye. But they’d always hated him. He was only Edmund’s half-brother, you know, and much younger. The lords never approved of Charles the Conqueror marrying Kenever’s mother after Queen Aelinor died.”

“Why not?”

“Because Conwenna was only a minor noblewoman from Guye,” said Robert, rolling his eyes. “Practically a commoner, as far as they were concerned. And there were rumors she was already pregnant with Kenever when she and Charles married. A lot of the lords see Kenever as little better than a bastard. And take it from me, the lords do _not _like bastards.”

“But why did Edmund name Kenever heir over his own son?” asked Luca, frowning.

“Good question. The lords would have us believe that Edmund wasn’t in his right mind at the end and Kenever manipulated him.”

“Do you believe it?”

Robert pushed his hands through his hair, thinking aloud.

“There was no one Edmund trusted more than Kenever, for all they were twenty years apart in age. The lords call Kenever a mercenary now to mock him, but he was Edmund’s mercenary first. General of his army, decorated hero. He subdued the Barbarian Territories that even Charles couldn’t hold. Took Luimnech Lough and won the Battle of Red Beck…”

Robert paused, seeing the flicker of something unreadable over Luca’s face. “But I suppose you were raised with a different version of those stories.”

Luca shrugged. He was winding and unwinding the loose string around his finger, eyes dark with memories that Robert knew no man of Solas had any right to ask about.

“Anyway,” said Robert, clearing his throat. “If anyone was in a position to manipulate Edmund, it was Kenever. But…”

“But?”

Robert sighed.

“Look, I’ve met Ademar. I think his father saw the way that particular wind was blowing and decided to cut his losses. He obviously didn’t expect that his lords would throw their weight behind a sixteen-year old boy instead of a decorated war hero.”

Luca pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them. He was even smaller like this, folded up like a penknife, with the same hidden sharpness. Looking at him, Robert felt a rush of almost unbearable affection.

“If you were going to hide a pamphlet that could get you killed,” said Luca thoughtfully, “where would you do it?”

“Oh, our rooms are full of hiding places. The dormitory is so old it’s practically made of nooks and crannies…”

Robert stopped short.

“You think he left it out on purpose. Fuck, he _did _leave it out on purpose. He told me to go into his room to borrow a book and he left this fucking thing on the desk on purpose for me to find. That fucker!”

“If you were going to recruit someone, it’s a smart way to do it,” Luca pointed out. “You’re Hugo’s friend; he knows you won’t report him. And even if you did, you couldn’t prove you found the pamphlet in his room.”

“Yes, it would just be me facing down the Watch at Bridesea with _Kenever: The True King of Solas _in my bloody hand.”

And wasn’t that a pleasant thought. Robert dug his thumbs into his temples and groaned.

“What are you going to do?” asked Luca.

“Kill him. No, I’m going to talk to him. He’s a squire’s son from the Midlands, he doesn’t understand the sort of fire he’s playing with.” Robert shook his head. “I was ten when Kenever was exiled. There were so many bodies strung up in Bromley Square you could smell the stink a mile out from the wharf. And Docktown’s teeming with sympathizers, the Watch raided us almost every week. I found bits of people in gutters. Dogs fighting over the bones. It was a nightmare.”

Robert didn’t realize that his hands had curled into fists until Luca took them in his own, weaving their fingers together. Robert felt a little of the tension ebb out of him.

“I told you that my master has us collect information,” said Luca. “If you wanted me to—wanted it for _any_ reason, Robert—I could tell you what I tell him. More than I tell him.”

“What sort of information do you pass along?”

Luca hesitated.

“Do you know Mykos Kyrkos?”

“The arms dealer? Yes, I met him once at Highcourt. He’s a brute. Works for Flavian Strange. Why—”

“Kyrkos is going to Thesselon to buy cannons for the King,” said Luca in a rush. “He’ll bring them back overland, through the Territories. It’s a longer way, more than a month, but safer than the White Sea route because Kenever’s ships are lurking in the bottleneck. That’s why the price of fresh fish is so high. But it’s still dangerous, bringing those kinds of weapons through the Territories, so more troops are being sent to keep the barbarians in line, but that’ll leave holes in the border defense, and the skirmishes out there are only going to get worse because Kenever is trying to force Ademar to sea. He’s from Guye; that’s his element. But Ademar can’t deploy the Royal Navy unless he declares open war, and he won’t do that because it would bring Ermin into play, and the crown owes Ermin money, a lot of money—”

Luca broke off, seeing Robert staring at him. “Am I talking too much? I’m talking too much. I’m sorry—”

“No, fuck, that’s not, you aren’t—” Robert broke off, running a shaky hand over his face. “Boiling buggered fields of hell, Luca, how do you _know_ all this? _Nobody _knows all this.”

“Men talk,” said Luca simply. “Or they give things away without realizing. I just sort of put it all together.” He frowned. “I’m not sure that I’m supposed to. Put it together, I mean. But I can’t help it. It’s like seeing all the pieces of a puzzle. Things just fit.”

Things did fit. They fit dangerously well, in fact. Robert didn’t want to think about any it. Instead, he pulled Luca to him—probably too tightly, but Luca grabbed his shirt and pressed himself closer.

“Scald the land, I don’t care about politics,” said Robert feelingly. “I just want us to be together and _safe_. If Hugo thinks I’m going to risk all our necks to play at revolution, he can think again.”

He looked at Luca sidelong. “That being said, if you were to put anything else together, I’d be interested in hearing it.”

“Of course,” said Luca with that hesitant, half-proud little smile. “I like telling you things.”

There was a soft chime from the bedside table as the hourglass tipped, ringing the small bell it was attached to. Gods, it hadn’t been an hour, had it?

But Robert’s pocketwatch confirmed that it had. Luca struggled to keep his expression even, but he couldn’t hide the brief flicker of desolation. To his dismay, Robert found himself blinking back the sting from his eyes. Theirs had always been the sort of misery that compounded.

“I have something for you before I go,” said Robert, hoping the cheer in his voice didn’t sound as false to Luca as it did to him.

He took out the_ Book of Law, Decree, and Custom _and pressed it into Luca’s hands.

“It’s much more interesting than the last one, I promise.”

“I liked the last one,” said Luca, hugging the book to his chest. “I’ll like this one too. Everything you bring me is wonderful.”

Gods, how could it be that the worship in Luca’s voice was still undiminished after all these years? His devotion had always made Robbie feel like a man, but it stirred in Robert only guilt and tired longing. Was anything truly a gift if Luca thought himself so hopelessly in Robert’s debt?

“You don’t have to pay me back,” Robert said. “For this book, or any book, or for food, or—well, for anything. I only want to be with you. That’s all I want, sweetheart.”

“That’s all?” said Luca wistfully, tilting his face up.

Oh, hell.

“And this,” said Robert, taking Luca’s face in his hands and kissing him breathless.

Robert descended the stairs to the public room with the taste of Luca still on his lips. It was still early enough that the whores outnumbered the customers; more than a few made eyes at him. Robert ignored them, looking around for the sullen boy from Bacchanal. Before he could find him, he found himself being bowed to by the eunuch, who seemed to emerge from thin air.

“What a surprise to see my lord so soon after his appointment with the Golden Bird,” said the eunuch, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “Did the boy prove unsatisfactory?”

“Gods, no,” said Robert—too forcefully; the eunuch flinched. “I’m very satisfied. He’s very—satisfying. Just looking for a little variety, that’s all.”

Robert spotted the sullen boy wedged into a corner with his arms crossed over his chest. The posture was clearly intended to make him look unapproachable, but with the pathetic scrap of silk tied around his hips, he only succeeded in seeming even more naked.

“How about him?” said Robert.

A flicker of horror rippled over the eunuch’s smooth face.

“Oh, my lord doesn’t want him.”

Robert thought of Francis. He arched a disdainful eyebrow.

“How do you know what I want?”

The eunuch bowed.

“Your slave begs forgiveness, my lord. Of course if that boy is the one you desire, then that is that boy you shall have.”

Seeing the eunuch approach with Robert in his wake, Asher’s arms tightened around himself. He was clearly fighting the impulse to press further into the corner. The eunuch made an impatient gesture; seeing it, Asher hesitated, fear warring with defiance. Then he slipped to his knees, making a clumsy attempt at the obeisance that Robert had seen Luca perform effortlessly.

Robert flicked his fingers up and Asher leapt to his feet, hands half-curled at his sides. A Docktown boy, then. Robert shouldn’t be surprised; Luca seemed to have a soft spot for them.

“The rooms are upstairs, my lord; the boy will follow,” said the eunuch. His voice promised untold torments if Asher disobeyed.

Asher ducked his head, more to hide his glare than to indicate obedience. As Robert turned to climb the stairs, he saw the eunuch grab Asher’s arm and hiss something in his ear. A little more fear appeared in Asher’s eyes, but the spark of defiance remained undampened.

Fields of hell, no wonder Luca was so worried about him. With that attitude, it was a good thing Asher was debt-bound and not a life slave, or he’d be in serious danger of ending up in a galley with his back whipped to shreds.

Up the narrow stairs was a narrow corridor. A few of the doors were closed, indicating that the rooms were in use, but most were open. Robert chose a room at random. They were all the same, anyway, grim little cells with a bed and a basin. He tried not to think of Luca receiving clients in one.

When Robert closed the door, Asher flinched away from him. For the first time, Robert saw that his legs were laddered with welts. He’d been caned, and badly. Robert didn’t have to stretch his imagination to think why.

Asher saw what Robert was looking at and glared.

“What’s your pleasure, my lord?”

“I don’t think that’s the line,” said Robert. “But you can save the poorly-disguised loathing for your next client. I’m not here for that.”

Asher didn’t seem to find this at all reassuring. If anything, he looked even more alarmed.

“What are you here for, then? My lord?”

Robert sat on the chair in the corner, trying not to think what other activities it might have been used for.

“I bought an hour; I plan to spend it studying,” he said, producing _Cartularium_ _Solasicum_ from his waistcoat. “You may do whatever you like, as long as you’re quiet.”

Asher stared at the book as though it was a trick he couldn’t figure out.

“You—you’re just going to read? That’s all?”

“That is indeed all,” said Robert, sitting back and opening to his bookmark.

He’d hoped that would be the end of their conversation, but Asher hovered, chewing the inside of his cheek. Robert ignored him.

After passing several minutes unmolested, some of the tension seemed to go out of Asher. He perched on the bed, drawing one leg up under him.

“You’re one of Luca’s, aren’t you?”

Robert looked up from an especially dull passage on land grants to see Asher regarding him with catlike amber eyes. He really was a striking boy, though it was clear from present circumstances that his beauty hadn’t done him any favors.

“I am Luca’s, yes. Very much so.”

Asher worked his jaw.

“Did he ask you to do this?”

“He’s worried about you,” said Robert, turning the page.

“But why would you care? I’m nothing to you.”

“And yet you mean a considerable amount to him.” Robert sighed. “Look, I really do need to study. Unless you can explain the distinction between land vested by common law and land vested by charter, I’ll have to ask you to leave me to it.”

Asher hesitated.

“D’you mind—I mean, is it all right if I rest?”

“Be my guest.”

“I’m not going to sleep, you understand. I’m just closing my eyes. I’ll wake up if you touch me.”

“I have no plans to touch you,” said Robert, not looking up from his book.

Still looking as though he expected a trick, Asher curled up on the bed with his back to the wall. For all his posturing, he went out like a light. Robert spent a peaceful hour reading. When the hourglass chimed, he bent over the bed to wake Asher.

True to his word, Asher bolted awake the moment Robert touched his shoulder. Robert took a step back, raising his hands to show they were empty.

“Didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to let you know that I’m off.”

“Fine,” said Asher, voice still slurred from sleep. Then, making a bad show of indifference, he asked, “What’re you going to tell Bagoas?”

“That I had a very gratifying hour and I plan to see you next week at the same time.”

Asher blinked at him.

“Thank you,” he ground out, as though through a mouthful of glass.

“Thank Luca,” said Robert.

He left Asher to pretend that all he was rubbing from his eyes was sleep.

Luca tipped his head up, letting the water sluice through his hair. _Oh, lovely._ Lovely to feel clean, even if it never lasted long. The half-warm water was bliss on his sore muscles. This must be how men felt after they fucked him. Loose-limbed, drowsy with satiety. It was almost worth being so filthy just for the pleasure of washing it all away.

“What’s with you and the red-haired lord?”

Luca opened his eyes to see Asher leaning against the shower wall with his arms crossed.

“He’s just a client, that’s all,” said Luca, turning so that Asher couldn’t read the truth on his face.

“Like hell that’s all. He paid for an hour with me and spent it _reading_. Said I should thank you.” Asher narrowed his eyes. “What’d you have to do to earn that kind of favor?”

“I smiled. You should try it sometime.”

Asher gave him a hard look.

“You don’t just _smile_ to get a man like him to do something like that.”

“He didn’t hurt me or make me do anything awful, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Luca. “He wouldn’t. He’s kind.”

Belatedly, he realized that he’d given away more than he intended. Asher’s eyes went wide.

“You’re smitten!”

Luca opened his mouth to deny it, but even after all these years, it seemed he still couldn’t lie about Robert.

Instead he said weakly, “Asher, please don’t.”

Asher shook his head, clucking like a matron.

“If it was me you’d say it was dead dangerous, falling for a free man.”

“I know,” said Luca, wincing. “Please, just take the favor and don’t give him any trouble. And for the Lady’s sake, don’t tell anyone.”

“Who would I tell?” Asher said, rolling his eyes. Then he grinned. “Ah, that’s it. You’re worried I’ve been chatting up Ganymene behind your back.”

“As if Ganymene would take prayers from you!” said Luca, laughing despite himself. “Not even if you sacrificed a whole calf.”

Asher tossed him the bar of soap.

“You should put in a good word for me the next time you visit the altar.”

“I always do,” said Luca, slicking his arms and chest.

“I know.” Asher nudged him with an elbow. “You worry too much.”

“So you’ll behave?” said Luca hopefully.

Asher laughed.

“Not likely.”

When Robert got back to the flat, Val was already asleep. Hugo was in his room, for a wonder, reading with the door open. Robert went in without knocking and tossed the pamphlet down on his desk.

“You left this out for me,” he said without preamble.

Hugo had the nerve to look innocent.

“Did I?”

“Willful stupidity isn’t a good look for you, Hugo.”

Hugo laughed, leaning back in his chair.

“What did you think of it?”

“What makes you think I read it?”

“I know you, Fitz.”

Now it was Robert’s turn to laugh.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” he said, turning to go.

“I know your mother isn’t a princess from Lübeck.”

That brought Robert up short. He tried to keep his discomposure from showing on his face.

“Your sympathizer friends tell you that?”

“They didn’t need to. I hear Docktown all over your voice every time you get drunk.” Seeing Robert’s expression, Hugo’s voice softened. “You sleep with a knife under your pillow, Fitz. I might be a hick from the sticks, but even I know that you don’t get scars like yours from growing up in a castle.”

Robert looked away.

“Have I really played this role so badly?”

“You should never have been asked to play it in the first place.”

There was a sharp edge to Hugo’s voice, as though he was angry on Robert’s behalf.

Almost by reflex, Robert retorted, “Lord Argent has been very good to me.”

Only once he’d said it did Robert realize how much he sounded like Luca. _Master Boq has been so good to me. He’s treated me better than I deserve__…_

Hugo clearly found Robert’s defense just as thin as Robert found Luca’s.

“For gods’ sake, Fitz, the man won’t even acknowledge that you’re his grandson,” he snapped.

“Do you think that ought to make me angry?”

“I think you’re already angry,” said Hugo. “You’re the angriest man I’ve ever met.”

“And self-centered. Charmingly so, as I remember.”

“But enough about your virtues,” said Hugo, grinning.

That damned grin rose such aching fondness in Robert’s chest that he had to look away.

“Were you ever my friend, or did your people just send you to recruit me?”

“You really are self-centered if you think I came to University just to spy on you. Of course I’m your friend, you idiot. That’s why I want to let you in on the work we’re doing.”

“Oh, so you did me a favor, did you, leaving that bloody pamphlet out like a clue on some sort of suicidal scavenger hunt? Dear gods, please tell me that you haven’t tried this trick with Val.”

“Of course not! Val won’t even cut across the Bursar’s lawn. He still thinks the world is just a bigger sort of school, and he’s terrified he’ll be sent down and end up peddling vegetables with his father. But you, Robert—you’ve lived on the other side of things. You know how fixed the game is. The lords stole the throne from Kenever because he wasn’t their sort, and _his_ father was a king. How do you think they see the rest of us? We’re no better than the beasts that till their fields.”

Despite himself, Robert was shocked to hear real hatred in Hugo’s voice. He’d known that Hugo had some radical ideas, of course, but he’d always cloaked them so cleverly in humor that Robert was never sure whether or not he was joking. There was no humor in Hugo’s words now. He was laying bare the resentment that had always seethed just under the surface of his flip remarks and teasing provocations.

“So you hate the lords,” said Robert. “Fine. I’m no fan of them either. But what you’re talking about—what this fucking pamphlet is talking about—that’s treason, Hugo.”

“Treason against what? Against Solas? Kenever was fighting for Solas when Ademar was in diapers.”

“Treason against the King,” said Robert through clenched teeth. “The real King, not your beloved prince in exile.”

“The real King is out to fucking lunch and you know it.”

A bark of laughter tore itself loose from Robert’s throat.

“Gods, I’m not hearing this.”

Hugo pressed on ruthlessly.

“Ademar has turned Highcourt into a circus with his beasts and his whores and his gladiators. And who pays for it? My father is selling our land to Lord Ambrose acre by acre in order to make taxes. And we’re lucky, we’ve got some position at least. You lived in Docktown; you’ve seen the raids, the poverty. Things are no better outside of Lyonesse. The mills in the Midlands are full of debt-slaves no older than my sister bloodying their fingers on the loom to make cloth for the market in Oued, all so Ademar can buy a new pet for his bloody menagerie—”

“You speak their propaganda very prettily, Hugo,” said Robert. “You could be a pamphlet yourself.”

If Hugo was insulted, he didn’t show it. He looked at Robert as though he was a child stubbornly refusing to eat his greens.

“Come on, Fitz. You’ve been presented at Highcourt; you’re Argent’s ward. You must hear things.”

“You’re as mad as Ademar if you think my grandfather tells me anything important,” Robert snorted. “Besides, whatever his feelings about the King, his allegiance is to the crown. Argent is loyal down to his bones. He’d die defending that throne.”

“Would you?”

Robert scrubbed a hand over his face. Gods, he was tired.

“You know the answer to that question, Hugo. I don’t like Ademar any more than you do. I’m just not stupid enough to think that I can do anything about it.”

For some reason, it was being called stupid that finally got under Hugo’s skin. He shoved himself back from the desk and leapt to his feet, a gesture that succeeded only in demonstrating that Robert was a full head taller than he was. Perhaps it was being caught wrong-footed that made Hugo say what he said next, or perhaps he’d always wanted to say it and Robert had just given him an excuse.

“You think that because Francis condescends to let you dine in High Parlor that you’re one of them? You should hear what they call you behind your back, those lordlings you think are your friends. Argent is gambling everything that he’s powerful enough to name a bastard as his heir. He hopes it’ll mean something that you’re descended from Roland and Ademar is your cousin by blood, even if your mother is—well, whoever the hell your mother is. But if the lords didn’t even accept Kenever, what do you think they’ll make of you, _Robert Fitzrobert?”_

That blow struck home. Robert clenched his jaw so hard the muscles in his arm jumped. He tried to force himself to relax, but his hands were squeezing air at his sides, reflexively looking for purchase on a blade’s hilt.

“And what do you make of me, Hugo?” asked Robert, trying to sound as if he didn’t care and failing miserably.

Hugo should’ve been smug with triumph, having made so deep a cut. Instead he just looked tired.

“I think you’ve had a difficult life,” he said. “More difficult than you’re willing to admit. I think it’s hardened you and sharpened you and made you mistake loneliness for strength. And I think that whether or not you’ve realized it, you’re every bit as much a sympathizer as I am, because you know that things can’t go on as they are now.”

Gods, Hugo really was aiming with deadly accuracy tonight, wasn’t he? Robert fumbled in his waistcoat for the crumpled packet of cigarettes.

“Yes, I stole them from you,” he said in response to Hugo’s accusing glare. “Look, Hugo. You want me to see the world the way you do, with righteousness and honor on one side and baseness and depravity on the other. But isn’t that simple. In the real world, people aren’t innocent victims to be protected or evil exploiters to be vanquished. They’re just people_, _making deals in order to survive.”

“Like you did with Argent?”

“Like I did with Argent. And a damn good deal that was, too.” Robert took a deep drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke burn into him. “I knew exactly which way my story was going. If it wasn’t for Argent, I would’ve ended up in a gutter with a knife between my ribs. Where I come from, they don’t bother mourning men like me. They know exactly how little our lives are worth.”

Robert didn’t know when he’d begun to pace. His voice was too loud, like he was trying to use it like a blunt weapon to make Hugo _see. _He forced himself to stand still; the hand that held the cigarette was the only part of him that shook.

“You style yourself as a radical, Hugo, but you’re so fucking sheltered. It’s easy to talk about revolution when you’ve never had to fight for anything.”

Hugo reddened and looked away. _You’re not the only one who can deliver a killing blow_, Robert thought. But, like Hugo, he felt no triumph. Just the ache of hurting a friend.

“Look, Fitz, I might not know much about your upbringing, but I do know that Argent wants you to see it as a weakness to be hidden at all costs,” said Hugo. “If you think that way, you’ll spend your whole life apologizing for everything that’s made you who you are.”

Robert pushed a hand through his hair, dislodging the tie that held it back. Bedraggled strands fell into his eyes. He must look a mess. As wrung-out and worse for wear as he felt.

“I’m tired, Hugo. If there’s something you want from me, you might as well come out and say.”

“I want you to come to a meeting,” said Hugo, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

“Oh, is that all?” Robert laughed. “Never going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have a fucking death wish.”

Hugo gave him a hard look.

“You drink yourself sick, sneak down to the wharf to go five rounds against whatever tough will fight you, and let Adrian Courtney lead you in a merry dance that ends with punching out the porter, and you think you don’t have a death wish?”

Robert had to admit that Hugo had him there. Still—“Things have been better lately. I’ve been going to class, studying for quals. Hell, I haven’t even spoken to Adrian in weeks.”

“Yes, Val told me,” said Hugo. He leaned against his desk, regarding Robert with an inquisitive eye. “He thinks you’ve found a good influence.”

“I have. And I’m not going to risk everything on a hand of revolution.”

Hugo shook his head.

“I’m disappointed, Fitz. I would have taken you for a lot of things, but not a coward.”

The Docktown scrapper in Robert wanted to break Hugo’s face for that, but the Gracegarden lord only raised an eyebrow and said coolly, “Like I said, you know nothing about me.”

Robert didn’t bother to wait for Hugo’s rejoinder. He was not above slamming the door on the way out.


	8. Chapter 8

Now that Robert was looking for treason, it was everywhere. He began to identify the undercurrent of dissent in lecture, how certain professors paid fulsome tribute to the bounties of Ademar’s reign while others emphasized its discontents. He recognized a pattern of irregular knots in the social fabric; those students who, like Hugo, crossed lines of rank and class to converge in combinations intended to seem random but which were in fact all too intentional.

Robert found himself keeping a weather eye on the comings and goings of a few key players. The stacks on the seventh floor of the old wing of Cuyler Library were an especially well-trafficked rendezvous point. Robert spied Peter Bagsley meeting there with Samuel Fulke, a suggestible potential recruit if ever there was one.

Not that Robert was spying, of course. He’d meant what he said to Hugo; he had no interest in games of political roulette. Besides, he was too busy studying.

Quals drew ever closer, a dark shape on the horizon that was rapidly resolving into a leviathan of truly monstrous proportions. Val papered the common area with cram sheets; he and Robert quizzed each other over breakfasts that might have been lunches or dinners, since they were staying up all night anyway. The scant hours Robert slept were filled with dreams of towering books of law chasing him through Lightcliffe, bellowing in Grandfather’s sonorous voice.

Even Robert’s last appointment with Luca had been almost entirely spent reviewing the _Book of Law, Decree, and Custom_. To Robert’s simultaneous delight and chagrin, Luca seemed to have a better grasp on the material than he did. Robert had begun to wish rather earnestly that it were possible for him and Luca to switch places on the day of the exam.

When he suggested it, Luca laughed.

“And where would you be while I took the test for you?”

“I suppose that if it were a fair exchange, I’d be here, taking your clients.”

Robert realized at once that this was the wrong thing to say. Luca’s breath caught; he looked sick.

“No, Robert. You wouldn’t want that.”

Robert stroked his thumb over the delicate curve of Luca’s cheekbone. There was a bruise there, so faint he almost couldn’t see it. A thumbprint from where a man had held his face too roughly.

“You don’t want to be here either, sweetheart. I know you don’t.”

“Slaves aren’t allowed to want things. Or not want them.” Luca’s eyes were remote; it was as if he was reciting a lesson. “Anyway, this is what I’m for. I belong here. You don’t.”

Robert wasn’t going to argue with Luca about what he was for or where he belonged. They could have that conversation once Luca was his, at which point Robert hoped it would be a moot point.

_You’re for me to love, to protect; you belong in my arms, sweetheart. Nowhere else_.

“We won’t switch places, then,” said Robert, trying to bring some levity back to the moment. “I’ll spirit you to the exam room with me and you can sit the test yourself at the next desk.”

Luca grinned.

“What would the proctor say?”

“He’d be struck dumb long enough for you to finish and take Highest Honors.”

Luca laughed. They were lying side by side, foreheads almost touching. This close, Robert could see the gap where one of Luca’s back molars had been knocked out.

Robert was suddenly, dangerously tempted to tell Luca about the books Hugo had been leaving in his room. There was an explosive little volume entitled _The Mouth of Iron_ tucked into the inside pocket of his waistcoat; he was too paranoid to keep it anywhere else. The writer argued that the only difference between kings and slaves, lords and commoners, was the accident of birth. The hierarchy wasn’t the will of the gods or a reflection of the state of nature, like the lords would have them believe, but an artificial institution imposed for the benefit of the few at the expense of the many.

It was an idea that Robert had circled the edges of but never been bold enough to confront directly. He felt like walls were being torn down in his mind. Hell, he hadn’t even known there _were _walls in his mind.

Fucking Hugo.

Anyway, Robert wanted desperately to talk everything through with Luca. He had a talent for processing information and reflecting it back in a new way, identifying points that Robert hadn’t seen and angles he hadn’t considered.

On the other hand, the writer’s grievances probably wouldn’t be news to Luca. He didn’t need to be told that the lords were decadent and abusive, that they exploited their position to satisfy their own base desires. He’d spent his entire life on the receiving end of it.

“Robert?” Luca touched his arm. “You’re scowling at the ceiling.”

Robert hesitated. Then, keeping his tone light, careless, he said, “It’s this idea I came across in a book. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. Mind if I run it by you?”

Luca stretched, his waistcloth riding down to expose the sinuous crest of his hip. His navel piercing winked invitingly. Robert had to tear his eyes away.

“If you didn’t understand it, I doubt I will,” said Luca. “But I’ll try my best.”

“Well, the writer argues that the authority of the King doesn’t come from the gods, but from the people,” said Robert. “He rules by consent of the ruled.”

“So the people give the King permission to be the King?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s like saying the slave makes rules for the master,” said Luca, shaking his head.

“It’s not a bad analogy, actually,” said Robert. “The writer would say that the master’s control over the slave is derived from the slave’s willingness to be controlled.”

Luca burst out laughing, then covered his mouth guiltily.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just—well, it’s a nice idea, Robert, but if a man owns you, he can do whatever he wants. He can even make you pretend that you want it. That’s what the writer means, isn’t it, when he talks about consent?”

Of course Luca would put things in terms that made Robert want to punch someone.

“I think the writer believes that submission should be negotiated,” he said carefully.

“Like when you beg the overseer for a lighter punishment?”

“Not exactly,” said Robert, wincing. “He says that obedience ought to be conditional upon fair treatment.”

“Obedience is an end, not a means,” said Luca, in the flat, emotionless voice that made Robert’s heart twist. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Robert. I don’t think I’m smart enough to understand.”

_No, sweetheart, you understood too well_. Luca had exposed a blind spot in the writer’s argument. What if a ruler manufactured the very conditions under which consent could imagined? Then it could only be coerced, never freely given.

That thought pealed like a harsh note. Robert caught himself scowling at the ceiling again. He turned to see Luca watching him anxiously.

“Did I—I said the wrong thing, didn’t I? I’m sorry, Robert. I’m so stupid, you shouldn’t listen to me.”

A headache was gathering behind Robert’s eyes. He rubbed his forehead, trying to will it away.

“No, it’s not you. I’m just fretting about quals, that’s all. Can you take me through the Statutes of Succession again?”

Luca did so, meticulously untangling the knottiest areas and explaining them with such clarity that even Robert’s insomnia-fogged brain could understand. Robert couldn’t help but notice that even when he was laying open obscure edicts with the precision of a surgeon, Luca’s voice never lost that hesitant, deferential note. As if at any moment he expected that Robert would slap him, call him stupid, shove him to his knees. Fields of hell, Luca would probably be relieved that Robert was finally treating him the way he thought he deserved.

Robert dragged his mind away from that particular thorny path. He did not have the emotional wherewithal to traverse it today, or possibly ever. He gave Luca a smile that he hoped communicated how pleased he was, how proud.

“You’re a godsend, sweetheart. Thank you. I think I’ve got it now.”

Luca beamed, gazing at Robert with such devotion that his chest ached.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, Robert. You’ll do brilliantly, I know you will.”

Robert knew by now when Luca wanted to be kissed. He would never make the first move, never touch Robert unless Robert touched him first. He’d just look at him hopefully, cheeks flushed, full lips slightly parted, and wait for Robert to claim his mouth like territory.

“I should go,” said Robert.

He threw his legs off the side of the bed and stood before he had time to second-guess the decision.

Luca pushed himself up on his elbows. With hair mussed and his eyes wide, he looked like he’d just been shaken violently awake.

“Oh,” he said in voice so small and broken that Robert wanted to hit something. Then, pulling himself together, he said, “Of course. You’re busy. I’m sorry, Robert, I didn’t mean to keep you.”

“Not your fault, sweetheart.” As if Luca had ever believed Robert when he told him that. “Don’t worry, I have an hour to see Asher. I think he’s almost come around to believing that I’m not going to jump him the moment he lets his guard down.”

Luca’s hands went to his hair—not yanking, just twisting together a braid.

“He isn’t used to men being kind to him. But he’s grateful, Robert, really. So am I.”

Of course he was. Robert could probably spit in Luca’s face and he’d thank him for it.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Robert said, grabbing his bag. “I have another book for you. I kept falling asleep over it, but I think your constitution for ten-crown words is higher than mine.”

Luca took the book with the same reverence as always.

“Thank you, Robert. I’ll have it finished by next week.” He hesitated, then said in a rush, “Will I see you next week? Only if you have time, I know how much you’re studying, I don’t want to be—well, a bother, or a burden, or—”

“You’re not a bother or a burden,” said Robert firmly. “Of course I’ll be here next week. I wouldn’t miss it, sweetheart.”

Luca’s expression of relief made Robert feel more like a monster than ever. Luca licked his lips and tilted his face up, eyes pleading. Gods, Robert wanted to kiss him so badly that it was physically painful.

Then he thought of Lord Crawley holding Luca down, splitting him open, and snarling, _Look at your lover and tell him who you belong to_. Luca was looking at Robert now just as he’d looked at Robbie then, with the same adulation, the same perfect, unearned trust.

_I belong to you, _he’d said. _You’re my master and I’m yours._

And masters could do whatever they wanted to their slaves, couldn’t they? Even make them pretend that they wanted it.

“I’ll see you then,” said Robert hastily, backing away from the bed and all its unspoken promises. “We, um—we can talk about that book.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Luca shivering, shadow-eyed, and alone.

Robert took the long route back to campus. By the time he arrived it was already getting dark, shadows slanting long over the quad. He swung by the commissary for sandwiches and coffee before returning to the flat.

As usual, Hugo was out and Val was camping in the common room with—Robert counted them—twelve books spread open in front of him. When he saw the commissary package, Robert thought he might burst into tears.

“Bless you, Fitz,” he said, unwrapping a ham sandwich like a prisoner falling on his last meal. “Gods, I was wondering why all the words were swimming. I can’t remember when I ate last.”

Feeding people was apparently becoming a habit of Robert’s.

“Coffee?” he asked, rummaging through the kitchenette for mugs.

“_Please_. You’re Melchior incarnate, that’s what you are.”

Robert found two mugs that had probably been washed at some point in their lives and filled them to the brim.

“More like Melita, with all the mothering I’m doing,” he said, handing Val a mug.

“Perhaps we could start calling you Mother instead?” said Val hopefully.

Robert pretended to consider it, then shook his head.

“No. No, Val, I am afraid that you shall have that nickname forever. That’s what you get for being the most responsible idiot in the flat.”

“Well, at least I’m responsible,” Val sighed.

Robert took a bracing gulp of coffee and surveyed the books Val had arranged around him like the Royal Guard. All of them seemed to have something to do with either the Barbarian Territories or the Treaty of Roane.

Oh, fields of buggered hell, Tilney’s essay. Robert had forgotten it completely. Thank gods Val was earning his nickname.

“I’ve got about half the damn thing written, if you want to copy,” said Val, reading Robert’s thoughts.

“You’re a hero. I’ll write the last half.” Robert nodded at the books. “Anything interesting?”

Val’s expression turned sour.

“You know I’m not a radical, Robert. I think by and large the Council’s got the right idea about things, and I really don’t care one way or the other about the damned barbarians. But…”

“But?”

“The Treaty’s a rotten business from start to finish, it’s plain as noon. The only reason Solas hasn’t been brought up in front of the Imperium is because the Realms have a vested interest in not kneecapping our economy.” He shook his head. “Though I’m not convinced we even make enough from exploiting the resources in the Territories to balance the ungodly expense of keeping the barbarians in line. Honestly, I think the only ones profiting off this whole mess are the weapons dealers in Oued.”

Robert remembered Argent’s rants about the Commissioner of the Territories using the King’s treasury as his personal piggy bank. No, Flavian Strange wasn’t the only vulture making a fortune from the conflict. It might be bankrupting Solas, but Robert would bet that key members of the Council were getting very rich indeed.

Possibly including Argent himself.

“Well, if Tilney’s any indication, the military won’t be pulling up their tents and calling the whole thing a wash anytime soon,” Robert said. “After two hundred years, it’s a grudge match.”

Val rolled his eyes.

“What a sound plank for a foreign policy platform. Not that I’m questioning the King, of course,” he added quickly.

“Of course.”

Robert took a sip of coffee, trying to formulate a question. “Mind if I run something by you? It’ll seem a bit random, but it’s connected to—well, to a sort of project I’m working on.”

Val had just taken an enormous bite of sandwich, but he nodded, giving Robert the thumbs-up.

Robert took a deep breath and asked, “Do you think a slave can consent to sex?”

“Slaves have no legal personhood,” said Val around his mouthful. “It’s like asking if this sandwich can consent to eating.”

“Yes, but can we agree that slaves aren’t sandwiches? I mean, legally they might not be people, but they breathe, they think, they’re the same species as we are.”

“So then it’s a sort of philosophical question?” said Val doubtfully. “Not really my area, Fitz. Why, is some beautiful slaveboy trying to seduce you?”

Robert didn’t answer. When Val looked at him, he forced himself to laugh

“But say for the purpose of the thought experiment that there was,” Robert said, trying to keep his tone objective, disinterested. “If I slept with him, would it be…?”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the word _rape_.

Val looked thoughtful.

“Well, it depends. Legally—yes, I _know_ that’s not the point, just let me talk it through—_legally_ if you own him, or if his owner is sharing him with you, then he can’t refuse. But I suppose that consent under those conditions falls under the category of surrender.”

“Surrender?”

“Like on the battlefield,” said Val. “When a superior force overwhelms a weaker one.”

Robert was about to argue. Then he remembered the way Luca dropped to his knees the second he saw that Robert was hard, as though Robert’s cock was a weapon that could be used against him if he didn’t show willing. As though Robert was a victor who needed to be appeased.

And, fuck, wasn’t he? That was why Luca was a slave, after all. His people had been conquered by Robert’s. He was a war prize. All barbarians were.

“You look like I’ve just broken your heart, Fitz,” said Val, taking another bite of his sandwich.

“No, you’re right,” said Robert slowly. “It is rape, what’s done to slaves.”

“That sounds like something Hugo would say.” Val licked a smear of mustard from the corner of his mouth. “Anyway, I wouldn’t go _that _far. Rape is—well, it’s a dreadful thing, isn’t it? A man could be hanged for it. But slaves are sort of mentally different. I don’t think they’re bothered the same way free people are. Especially pleasure slaves. I mean, it’s what they’re trained to do. They must get some sort of enjoyment out of it. Not physically, I suppose, but the pleasure of a job well done and all that.”

Robert thought of Luca’s panic after Robert refused him. How he’d insisted that he wanted to suck Robert’s cock even as he shook with fear.

Val was right to draw the comparison to surrender. Robert wasn’t any different than any of the other men Luca went to his knees for. He was no less a tyrant than Ademar.

Luca dreaded virgins. He didn’t get many, priced as he was, but the ones who did decide to lose their innocence to the Golden Bird generally wanted to make an event of it.

Not Samuel Fulke. It was clear from the moment he stepped into the Harlequin that he was there under some duress. Luca watched through respectfully downcast eyes as he paced back and forth, muttering to himself. He was a little younger than Robert, and Luca would’ve known him for a student at once. His fingers, like Robert’s, were stained with ink; he wore the same style of sleek, dark jacket and breeches. The buttons of his embroidered waistcoat gapped over his soft middle.

Idly, Luca wondered if Robert and the young Lord Fulke knew each other. Were they were friends in their world beyond the Harlequin, the one that Luca could only imagine?

He shook himself. It was no good thinking of Robert when he was with a client. Especially as it was obvious that without intervention, Lord Samuel would spend the entire appointment pacing.

Luca summoned all his boldness and asked, “Would it please my lord if your slave poured a glass of wine?”

Lord Samuel started; it seemed he’d forgotten Luca was there. His gaze hovered around the space Luca occupied, as if it was painful to look at him directly.

“Oh, I never drink. It retards the functioning of the brain. And you needn’t be so formal,” he added. “I never make the slaves at home talk to me like that, so you shouldn’t either.”

Luca ducked his head, sighing inwardly. Men like Lord Samuel thought themselves magnanimous when they ordered slaves to act above their station, but it always felt to Luca like being shoved out on a bridge so fragile it could crumble to nothing in a moment.

“I suppose I seem rather out of place,” said Lord Samuel, turning his hat in his hands. “This was my father’s idea. I’ve never—well, you know. He says it’s traditional to do it for the first time with a boy like you. And it is, but it’s such an old-fashioned tradition—only when I tried to explain that he said the old-fashioned traditions were the best ones, that they’d lasted for a reason, and that I should just—well, get on with it.”

He looked at Luca and added wretchedly, “It would be easier if you weren’t so beautiful.”

Luca didn’t know how to respond to that. Usually when men called him beautiful it was because they were thinking about how he’d feel around them, but Lord Samuel sounded like he was accusing Luca of a crime.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” he said. That was always the safest reply.

“It’s hardly the sort of thing you need to apologize for,” Lord Samuel sniffed. “Anyway. How does this usually work?”

“I would usually ask permission to take your hat and coat, my lord.”

Lord Samuel looked as though were at war with himself. After a moment of furious struggle, he said, “Yes, well, I suppose that’s all right.”

Luca would have to do this next part very skillfully. Lord Samuel desired him; that was obvious from the way his breath stuttered when Luca slid his hands under his coat, exerting light pressure against the soft slump of his chest and shoulders. But he didn’t tell Luca where to touch next or shove him to him to his knees, as most men would have. Instead he stood looking lost, hands arranged awkwardly over his crotch to hide the growing bulge.

It was clear that Luca would have to lead from behind—hopefully literally, if he could coax Lord Samuel into taking what his father had paid for. (And Fulke would doubtless ask for a full report after. Luca couldn’t forget who held the purse strings.)

“If you sit on the bed, my lord, I can take your boots.”

Lord Samuel looked at the bed as though he suspected a trap. Warily, he perched on the corner, one hand braced against the bedpost.

Luca touched the inside of Lord Samuel’s knee, causing him to jerk his legs open. Luca knelt between, hands on his thighs to keep them from snapping shut. He ran his palms down Lord Samuel’s legs to his boots, leaning forward more than he needed to so that his mouth was only a few inches from Lord Samuel’s crotch. He slipped off one boot, then the other, stroking the sensitive undersides of his calves. The lord was panting now, gripping the bedpost so hard Luca wondered that it didn’t split.

When Luca slid his hands up the inside of Lord Samuel’s legs, he whimpered. A drop of wetness seeped through the placket of his breeches.

Luca licked his lips and summoned his most eager smile.

“Please, my lord, may I touch you?”

“Oh, _gods_,” Lord Samuel groaned, burying his face in his hands. Through his fingers, he said, “You’d better call me Samuel, I think.”

“May I touch you, Samuel?”

“Yes, I think you better had.”

In seconds, Luca had his breeches unlaced, his drawers unbuttoned, and his cock in hand. Lord Samuel was achingly hard and oozing precum. When Luca swiped a thumb over the head, his cock twitched and a fresh spurt of fluid dribbled over Luca’s fingers. Luca knew that he shouldn’t be lazy, but it was always nice when he didn’t have to work hard to bring a man off.

“May I use my mouth to please you, sir?” Luca asked, stroking Lord Samuel’s cock to the base.

Lord Samuel peeked at Luca through his fingers, then shut his eyes again.

“_Gods_. Yes, I think I’d like that.”

_It really is his first time, _Luca thought. He was startled by a sudden rush of protectiveness. No one would ever use their mouth on Luca, of course, and he would never enjoy sex the way Lord Samuel was about to (that would be wrong, obscene; his stomach twisted just thinking about it). But Luca would always remember the first time Robbie kissed him, the sparking heat that made his toes curl and his breath catch. He hadn’t known that he could feel that way before Robert. It still astonished him that it was something he was allowed.

Sex wouldn’t be anything like that for Lord Samuel, of course. It would be—better, or different, because slaves didn’t, _couldn’t_, feel the way that free men did. But Luca wanted to make it good for him. Whoever came after—real lovers, a wife—Luca would always be his first.

Careful not to overwhelm the man trembling under his hands, Luca went slowly, lapping at the head of his cock before taking it into his mouth to suck. Lord Samuel tasted clean, like soap and only a little musk. He must’ve bathed before coming to the Harlequin. Luca was grateful. Most men didn’t bother when it was only a whore that had to taste them.

“Oh, Father of Hosts, that’s nice,” Lord Samuel groaned. He reached down to pat clumsily at Luca’s hair. “You’re too lovely. Please don’t stop.”

Encouraged, Luca worked Lord Samuel’s shaft with both hands as he sucked the head of his cock. He ran his tongue around the ridge, flicking against the frenulum.

Lord Samuel gasped. He shoved Luca’s shoulder.

“Stop. Stop.”

Luca pulled back.

“Have I displeased you, sir?”

Lord Samuel laughed shakily, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Gods, no. Quite the opposite. If you keep doing that, I’m going to—you know.”

Of course. Virgins never lasted long.

“Would you like to finish in my mouth, my lord, or would you prefer to be inside of me?”

Lord Samuel turned, if possible, even redder.

“Oh, gods. The, ah—the second thing.”

Luca knew better than to ask Lord Samuel how he wanted him, since it was clear that Lord Samuel had no idea what he wanted. Gently, Luca pushed him onto his back and pulled down his breeches. His thighs were pale and plump, covered in coarse dark hair. Straddling him, Luca’s legs looked bare and scrawny by comparison. Luca hoped Lord Samuel liked the juxtaposition; most men did. It made them feel powerful.

Then again, he wasn’t sure how much Lord Samuel was registering right now. His pupils were blown, pulse rabbit-fast. He was panting raggedly. When Luca untied his waistcloth and brought Lord Samuel’s hands to his ass, he thought the man might pass out

Wordlessly, Luca showed Lord Samuel how to pull him open. He rubbed the tip of the man’s cock against his rim before guiding it inside.

Lord Samuel made a strangled noise. His hips snapped up once, twice, and he was coming, eyes squeezed shut as he spurted. Luca rode him through the aftershocks, then shifted his weight so he wouldn’t put unwelcome pressure on the cock going soft inside him.

“Oh, gods. Oh, Melita preserve me. Father of Hosts bless my name. Please don’t move,” Lord Samuel added piteously. “I’m in a very sensitive state.”

Luca obeyed, sitting back on his heels. On impulse, he pushed Lord Samuel’s sweaty curls back from where they’d flopped over his forehead. It was an impertinence that most lords wouldn’t allow from a slave, even one they were still inside, but Lord Samuel sighed with pleasure. He opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling as though he’d been poleaxed.

“My goodness. Is it always like that?”

“Every man finds his pleasure his own way, my lord.”

“I don’t think I would survive if it felt that good every time,” said Lord Samuel. “There must be a sort of deadening of sensation as one gets used to it.”

Then he frowned. “I told you to call me by my name, didn’t I? Have you forgotten it already?”

“No, Samuel,” said Luca quickly, kicking himself. “Forgive me. May I clean you?”

“Clean me?”

“With my mouth.”

“Oh dear,” said Lord Samuel, alarmed. “No, you don’t have to do that. Do you always offer?”

“Yes, sir. Samuel. It’s expected.”

“Oh. That seems—well, rather degrading. But perhaps that’s the point.” Lord Samuel wrapped a strand of Luca’s hair around his finger. “Do you ever enjoy it?”

“Sir?”

“The—you know.” He widened his eyes and mouthed, “_Fucking_.”

Such propriety from a man who’d just spilled inside of him! Luca smiled despite himself.

“Yes, sir. It’s what I’m for. I enjoy it very much.”

“I suppose you have to say that,” said Lord Samuel doubtfully. “You’re very good at it, anyway.”

“Thank you, sir. I live to please you.”

For some reason, this response seemed to irritate Lord Samuel. He flicked Luca’s hair away. When he spoke, his voice had lost the sweetly sleepy note.

“How many men do you have to do this with every day?”

The question caught Luca off-guard. No client had ever asked him that before; he didn’t have a response prepared. The truth was that on an average day he served anywhere from six to twelve men, more if it was a weekend or a holiday or he’d been hired out for a party. But was that what Lord Samuel wanted to hear? Would he like the idea of Luca taking cock after cock, the way Kyrkos did? Or was he one of those that liked to think himself special?

Perhaps he was worried about catching something—and he probably should be. Luca had had just about everything at least once. There just wasn’t any way to avoid it, even at an upscale brothel like the Harlequin.

Oh, Lady, what if Luca had something _now?_ He knew too well that there were diseases he could pass on before the symptoms showed. What if he gave Lord Samuel something awful with his filthy, used-up body and scared him off sex forever? What if Lord Samuel told everyone at University that the Golden Bird was contaminated and Robert found out and never touched him again?

Luca saw Lord Samuel was staring at him and realized that he still hadn’t responded to the question. He applied his most empty-headed smile. _Brainless barbarian._

“Is there an answer I can give that would please you, my lord?”

Clearly this was the wrong approach. Lord Samuel’s scowl deepened.

“Are those the only answers you’re allowed?”

_Of course they are_. Luca could feel the bridge crumbling under him, just like he’d known it would. He bit the inside of his cheek and said nothing. Better to be slapped for silence than to say the wrong thing and get himself in real trouble.

Lord Samuel sighed.

“Never mind.”

He shoved Luca’s hip, indicating that he wanted him off. Luca let Lord Samuel’s cock slide out of him, then moved to kneel at the foot of the bed with his hands on his knees. It was far too informal a posture, and if the man was finished with him then Luca really shouldn’t be on the bed at all, but he suspected that if he went to the floor Lord Samuel would only get more annoyed.

“How long do I have to stay?” asked Lord Samuel, groping around for his breeches.

“However long you like, my lord. You have another forty minutes before the end of your appointment. How can I make it enjoyable for you?”

Lord Samuel stood with his back to Luca, yanking up his breeches and fumbling with the laces. Luca definitely wasn’t allowed to be on the bed if the man was standing. He slipped silently to his knees, keeping his hands in front of him so that he could help Lord Samuel dress if he was ordered to.

“What do you do usually?” asked Lord Samuel without looking at him.

“I could dance, or give you a massage, or have food brought. And of course my lord is welcome to use me again in whatever way he desires.”

Lord Samuel turned to reply and looked startled to see Luca kneeling. He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind.

“You really don’t want to call me Samuel, do you?”

Luca’s breath caught. He bowed to the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“I’m sorry, my lord—Samuel—please, I’m so stupid, but I swear I’m not disobeying on purpose—”

“It’s all right,” said Lord Samuel, sounding alarmed. “For gods’ sake, get up.”

Luca obeyed, pushing himself back to his knees and folding his hands behind his back.

“You’re afraid of me,” said Lord Samuel quietly. “I haven’t given you any reason to be. Do they hurt you here?”

Luca drove his teeth into his lip. Only when he tasted copper did he realize that he’d re-opened the split that had only just healed. But that didn’t matter now; it probably would’ve happened anyway once Lord Samuel started hurting him. Luca should have known from the beginning that that was what he really wanted. Or maybe Lord Samuel hadn’t realized it himself until Luca was stupid enough to give him a reason.

Lord Samuel was still looking at him at him. That’s right, he’d asked a question. Luca had to answer. _It’s like you’re trying to make him punish you, hole_.

“Forgive me, Samuel. Of course there are other ways my body can be put to use for your pleasure. Only—” He tried to take a deep breath, but it was like a hand was squeezing his lungs. “Only one of my clients paid a protection fee. I can’t be marked.”

“Marked?” said Lord Samuel, frowning.

“Yes, sir. You can’t do anything to break, burn, or bruise the skin, or incapacitate me for longer than the length of the appointment.” Seeing the anger building on Lord Samuel’s face, Luca rushed on, “But if you want to hurt me, Samuel, I can make suggestions, tell you how to do it without leaving damage. There are implements available, some in the room and more that I can send for. I was trained to take pain, and I won’t cry or beg unless you give me permission. I’ll do anything you want.”

“I don’t want any of that,” said Lord Samuel. He sounded furious. “What kind of a person—” He broke off. “I should go. I need to study. This is a waste of time.” To himself, he muttered, “I’m not _like_ this.”

Luca closed his eyes. He’d gotten it wrong again. Of course he had; he always did. Lord Samuel was even more disgusted with him than Robert had been when Luca offered his mouth. No wonder Robert didn’t even want to kiss him now. If Luca had any brains at all, he’d learn not to make assumptions about how free men wanted to use him. How dare a slave presume know what a lord wanted, anyway? He should be punished for thinking he could stretch his meager understanding so far above his station.

Perhaps Luca would be punished when Lord Samuel complained to his father and Lord Fulke complained to Master Boq. Maybe this time he really would end up back at the fuckhouse. Then he wouldn’t even have to expend the effort to spread his legs because he’d be chained wide, finally and utterly reduced to his purpose.

_That’s where you belong, hole. A thing like you should never have been allowed to think for itself in the first place…_

“It really does all seem rather decadent, doesn’t it?”

Luca opened his eyes. Lord Samuel was at the door in his coat and hat, gazing around the room with open disapproval.

“What does, Samuel?”

“This place. This tradition. You.”

Lord Samuel looked at Luca and his face softened. “That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. You really are the most beautiful boy in Lyonesse, but I don’t think be seeing you again.”

Lord Samuel’s appointment was right before the dinner hour. Luca usually spent most of it in the practice room, but Eamon caught him on his way there.

“Bagoas wants you,” he said without preamble.

Luca felt the cold hand of fear close around his lungs. Did that mean Lord Fulke had complained already? But surely Luca would’ve been summoned to Master Boq’s office, or sent straight to Sark for punishment. _Lady, _what if Bagoas had found the books? At that thought the hand squeezed tighter, threatening to suffocate him. But no, that wasn’t possible. Not unless Bagoas pried up the loose floorboard in the practice room, and there was no reason for him to do that. Luca had been too careful. Hadn’t he?

Luca thanked Eamon numbly and turned to go.

Eamon called after him, “Oh, and Asher talked back to a client and Sark took the belt to him. Bagoas didn’t tell me to tell you that, I just thought you should know.”

Luca’s chest clenched. _Oh, Asher_. Today really did just get worse and worse.

When Luca knocked on Bagoas’s door, it opened right away. Bagoas yanked him in and slammed the door shut behind him. Luca only had a moment to register how strange that was, Bagoas doing anything forcefully, gracelessly, before Bagoas took him by the shoulders and shoved him against the wall.

“Robert Fitzrobert. What is he to you?”

Luca went still. Bagoas’s lacquered fingernails were digging into his shoulders, his eyes narrowed into slits. Luca had never seen him look this angry before. This afraid.

“S-sir?”

Bagoas shook him.

“Don’t take me for an idiot, Luca. Twice now he’s engaged Asher after your appointment, and gods know that damned boy looks far too pleased with himself afterward for his lordship to be getting his money’s worth. You asked for a favor, didn’t you?”

Miserably, Luca nodded. For a moment, he thought Bagoas was going to hit him. But he just shoved Luca against the wall and began to pace.

“I thought so. The man is besotted with you. It’s all over his face.”

“I thought it was my job to make men want me,” Luca said, rubbing his arms where Bagoas’s fingernails had left crescents in his skin.

Bagoas rounded on him.

“Without falling for them yourself! You may be able to hide it from the master, but I know you better. This lord’s bastard has you love-struck.”

Luca opened his mouth, then closed it again. He knew what he needed to say. _Lord Fitzrobert is nothing to me. Just another client._ But he never could lie about Robert.

Bagoas was looking at Luca with something like pity. Still, when he spoke his voice was cold.

“Has he made you forget yourself so utterly that you no longer feel the collar around your neck? You are a slave, barbarian.”

The words hit Luca like a slap.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he whispered. “How could I?”

“Because he doesn’t treat you like a slave. Does he?”

Luca’s breath caught. How did Bagoas know? Did it show on Luca’s face?

Bagoas sighed.

“You might think it’s a kindness, Luca, but when free men disregard rank in the bedroom, it only ever does us injury.”

Luca thought of Lord Samuel forcing him call him by his name, as if it were a favor and not just another order Luca had to follow. Robert wasn’t like that. Even when Robbie was teaching Luca not to call him _sir, _he’d never gotten angry when Luca slipped up. He’d cross his eyes, make a joke, and then kiss Luca when he got it right. 

“He would never hurt me,” said Luca fiercely. “Not ever.”

Bagoas’s smile was a bitter quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“You and I are more alike than you know, Luca. I was once young and beautiful and fancied myself in love with a client. This was in Baktria; the client was Solasan, there on Charles’s business. When he was summoned back to Highcourt, he bought me from the brothel and took me to Lyonesse with him.”

Bagoas had a distant, dreaming look on his face. With a jolt, Luca realized that this was the first time he’d ever seen Bagoas happy. Or no, not happy. It was the echo of happiness he was seeing, and with it the echo of Bagoas’s beauty. Lady, he must have been almost as lovely as Ganymene once.

“We had a golden season, he and I,” Bagoas went on. “Even after he married, he visited me often. He always promised that after my looks faded, he’d find me some other employment in his household. He wouldn’t forget one who had brought him joy, he said.

“But the years went on, and when it came time to replace me it turned out that no other work could be found in the household after all. One thing to have me locked away where his wife never had to see my face; quite another to have me serve her tea. I was sold to an auction house, and from there to a progressively shabbier series of brothels, until it was decided that I was too old even for that. My owner had me cut so that I could be sold on as an attendant.

“And that’s how I came to be here at the Harlequin, pouring the master’s sherry and rubbing his feet and speaking Baktrian to him when he’s feeling homesick.” Bagoas looked around his bare little room, with the cot on the floor and his other robe hanging from a nail in the wall. “I shall die here, I expect.”

Luca opened his mouth, then closed it. What could he possibly say to that?

“I’m sorry, Bagoas. I didn’t know.”

“Obviously. How could you?” Bagoas picked an invisible piece of lint from his robe. “Do you see why it has me so concerned, whatever it is you think you feel for Fitzrobert?”

“Yes,” Luca admitted. “But he’s different, Bagoas, I swear.”

“Heaven has yet to make a man any different than the one I’ve just described,” Bagoas snapped. “Whatever pretty things free men tell you, whatever promises they make, they want only to feed on your beauty like vultures. You’ll be thrown away the moment your master has had his fill, just as I was. And it’ll be the worse for you, as it was for me, because you hoped for more.”

That stung so badly that Luca had to close his eyes. He knew that slaves weren’t supposed to hope, not even for mercy. Not even for death. He’d always been careful to limit himself, hoping only for small things: that a client might be pleased with him, that a beating would end.

But Robert—Robert made Luca hope hugely, recklessly. He hoped for books he wasn’t allowed and kisses he didn’t deserve. He hoped for the brush of Robert’s hand, the sound of his laugh. And he even hoped—_brainless barbarian—_that Robert would someday want to take whatever pleasure he could wring out of Luca’s worthless body.

And how could Bagoas think Luca would ever dare hope for more than that? There was nothing more than that, not in any world Luca could dream.

Bagoas was watching him, his expression unreadable.

“You needn’t end up like me, Luca,” he said quietly. “Tell me. In the training house, did they teach you that desire is a weapon wielded by men alone? That you can only submit to it?”

Luca nodded. That was the first lesson, the one that laid the foundation for every lesson after.

“Yes, they taught us that in Baktria. But they were wrong. To be desired is a power in itself. Had I realized that when I was your age, I might have fared better.”

Luca shook his head.

“I’ve never had any power over what men do to me.”

“Perhaps not. But you’re strong wine, Luca. When men lose themselves in you, they expose more than they intend.” Bagoas arched an eyebrow. “Think of all those books you’ve beguiled out of Sark. The poor man would steal jewels to cast them at your feet if he thought it would make you smile.”

Luca’s heart seized.

“You know about the books?”

“Obviously,” said Bagoas, rolling his eyes. “I should have nipped it in the bud, but…well. You’re a sweet boy; it’s too easy to grow fond of you. To make allowances one later regrets.”

Luca looked at the floor.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

But he wasn’t sorry. He couldn’t be, not about books. This was the first time Luca had ever lied to Bagoas—really lied, not just kept things from him or talked around the truth. It felt much worse than lying to Master Boq.

“Your illicit little library is the least of my worries,” Bagoas sighed. “Listen to me, Luca. There is enormous power in being desired, if you know your art. But desire is a spell you can only control if never fall under it yourself. Do you understand?”

Luca didn’t understand at all. Bagoas was speaking of power and control as if they were things Luca had over men instead of the other way around. Luca couldn’t even get Robert to kiss him.

But maybe Bagoas was talking about the control Luca had over himself, the control he lost utterly every time Robert was near him. Robert made him want things—forbidden, unnamable things, things he couldn’t even admit to himself. Sometimes the desire was so strong that Luca thought he might die of it.

“I understand,” Luca said.

“I would cancel your appointments with Fitzrobert if I could, but it isn’t for me to decide who your clients are,” Bagoas sighed. “I can only warn you. And this is a warning, boy, make no mistake. If I suspect you of being importunate with your young lord again, it won’t just be me you’ll have to answer to, but Sark and the master. Do you hear me?”

Luca nodded. He felt a prickling in his eyes and blinked it back. _Stupid_. He deserved this. Bagoas was doing him a favor. He should be grateful.

“You feel too much, Luca,” said Bagoas. “It’s why you’re such an extraordinary dancer. But I fear for you. Gentle hearts are made for breaking.”

He waved a hand.

“Go. And think about what I’ve said.”

Luca stumbled out of Bagoas’s room half-blind with tears and promptly ran headlong into another boy. He blundered backward, mumbling an apology.

“Luca?”

Luca looked up to see Asher, even more red-faced and swollen-eyed than he was. Luca saw why at once. There were fresh welts cutting across the barely-healed cane marks on his legs. Lady, was there enough salve left to cover all that raw skin? There had to be, Luca had been careful, he’d been rationing it out, and if there wasn’t he could go to Sark, he could make a deal—

“What’d that ball-less fucker do to you?” Asher demanded.

Luca grabbed his arm to keep him from charging at Bagoas’s door.

“Nothing! Just warned me, that’s all.”

Asher was still scowling.

“Warned you about what?”

“Robert.”

“Robert?” said Asher, frown deepening. Then his eyes went wide. “The red-haired lord. You call him by his _name?_”

Luca looked away. Of all the stupid, incriminating things he could’ve said. Thank goodness Bagoas hadn’t heard him call a lord by his name, or he’d would be on his way to Sark for a whipping.

But Asher didn’t look horrified at Luca’s insolence. He squeezed his shoulder and shrugged.

“Sometimes I think that if any of these bastards was even halfway decent when he bent me over, I’d—well, I wouldn’t hate him as much as the others, that’s for sure,” he said. “And I can tell he’s decent to you, the red-haired lord.”

“Yes, but he _hasn’t_,” Luca blurted out. “Bent me over, I mean.”

“Wait. Are you saying you haven’t been fucked?”

Luca knew that he shouldn’t be talking about this, but he couldn’t help it; the words just came pouring out of him like blood from a wound.

“Not by Robert, not ever. He won’t even use my mouth. I offered, I _keep_ offering, but he says he won’t until he buys me.”

“But the fat frog upstairs won’t sell you.”

“Asher, don’t call him that!” Luca hissed. “Lady, it’s like you _like_ being punished. And no, the master won’t sell me yet. I make him too much money.”

Asher rolled his eyes.

“Well, what does the red-haired lord do when he sees you, then? Is it like with me, and he just lets you sleep?”

Luca could’ve laughed at the absurdity of that suggestion. As if he’d ever waste his precious time with Robert _sleeping_.

“No, he brings me food and books. He—he talks to me.”

“He _talks_ to you? What about?”

“Everything. I’m helping him study for a test.”

“Does he even touch you?”

“My face, or my hand, or—but he’s gentle, he never grabs me or paws at me. He hasn’t even pulled off my clothes. And sometimes,” Luca went on, voice dropping to a whisper, “sometimes he kisses me. Only it’s not like it is with the others. I—I like it. I _love_ it, it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt. I think about it all the time, even when I’m not with him. Is that wrong?”

Asher was staring at Luca like he’d turned into a stranger. He hesitated, emotions flickering across his face. Luca looked for disgust, but didn’t see it; just a distant, sad-eyed yearning that was replaced in the next moment by apprehension.

“I’m not sure,” Asher said. “But I do know that you’re in serious trouble.”

“I know! I know, all right? I’ve just gotten an earful of it. I know what I am, I know I’m not allowed to want things, I know—” He broke off, dangerously close to tears again. “I’ve been so _stupid_.”

“You’re not stupid. But you have to see that it doesn’t make any sense. I mean, the red-haired lord could save himself a lot of money by staying home and not fucking you there instead of coming all the way to the Harlequin to not fuck you here. Kissing’s nice and all, but that’s not what men pay whores for. Why’s he bothering with you?”

That question brought Luca up short. He had no more idea why Robert was bothering him now than he had when they were children. Luca had never deserved Robert’s attention, his kindness, even before he’d been passed around by half the men in Lyonesse. Robert had seen him on stage; he knew what Luca was. He felt pity, maybe, some lingering affection. The ghost of love, like what Luca had seen in Bagoas’s face when he spoke about his long-ago master.

But Robert wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man, and men had only ever wanted one thing from Luca. If Robert didn’t want him for that, then he didn’t want him at all.

Luca didn’t know why Robert was bothering with him. But he had to give Robert a reason.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some thorny consent/sexual trauma issues between Robert and Luca (like, even more than usual).

When the door opened, Luca was on his knees with his arms folded behind his back. He had bangles on his biceps and ankles, chained bracelets on both wrists that connected to rings set with glass stones; he’d arranged himself so that the low light would glitter on him. He wore a short shift, open at the sides. The sheer fabric draped between his spread thighs.

“Sweetheart?”

Robert stood in the doorway with his hat in one hand and a wax paper bag in the other. He was staring at Luca with his mouth open. Luca rose to his feet, careful to keep the movement elegant, sinuous.

“May I take your coat?” he asked, stepping forward.

Robert was blinking rapidly.

“Um. Yes, if you like.”

Luca slid his hands over Robert’s chest before unhooking the first button. He went slowly, giving Robert time to adjust to the feel of his hands on his body. Even through the thick fabric, Luca could feel how fast his heart was beating.

“I brought chocolate biscuits,” said Robert awkwardly, hoisting the wax paper bag. “If you’re hungry. I’m not, I had a sandwich for lunch. Well, two sandwiches. Ham with mustard. You didn’t need to know that. Um—”

“Thank you,” said Luca, taking the bag and tucking it into the front pocket of Robert’s coat. “I’m not hungry either. Not for that.”

He pushed the coat from Robert’s shoulders, feeling the muscle corded here. A greedy little shiver of pleasure went through him.

_Don’t forget yourself, hole_, the voice reminded him. Luca was here for Robert to enjoy, not the other way around.

Once Luca had hung up Robert’s coat and hat, he knelt at Robert’s feet and began to unlace his boots.

“What are you doing?” Robert asked, voice half an octave higher than usual.

Luca gazed up at him with an expression of wide-eyed innocence, letting Robert see how he looked from this angle. How easy it would be to unlace his breeches and guide Luca’s mouth to his cock.

“I thought you’d be more comfortable without your boots.”

Robert swallowed.

“I can—”

“Please. Let me.”

Luca unlaced Robert’s boots and slid them off his feet. He was wearing bright yellow socks with a hole in the toe.

“It’s laundry day,” said Robert.

Lady, was he _blushing?_ Luca felt a rush of affection so intense that it was almost unbearable. Robert’s shyness, his ridiculous socks. How could anyone so good and perfect exist in the same room as Luca? How could he keep visiting this filthy place and remain so clean?

On impulse, Luca kissed Robert’s knee. It wasn’t where he wanted to put his mouth, but it was closer at least than the floor, which Master Trainer was quick to inform him was what he ought to be kissing.

Robert’s breath caught.

“Luca…”

The note of warning in his voice made Luca realize what he’d done. He’d stolen a kiss. _Should take the skin off your back for insolence, hole_.

Luca’s boldness left him, leaving a cold pit of fear. He couldn’t look at Robert’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry. May I stand, please?”

“Yes, of course. You know you don’t have to ask permission—”

Luca stood abruptly, too furious with himself to be elegant. How could he salvage this?

“Let me pour you a drink,” he said, then winced at how forward he sounded. That should’ve been a question, but he was too afraid that Robert might refuse.

Luca went to the sideboard, where he’d laid out a carafe of red wine and a long-stemmed glass. He didn’t know any more about wine than he did about anything that wasn't being fucked, but Bagoas was in charge of the Harlequin’s cellar, and he said that this was a particularly excellent vintage. At his direction, Luca had been letting the wine aerate for the last hour. It perfumed the room with an earthy aroma as Luca poured.

Luca turned with the glass to see Robert was still standing frozen in place. He was watching Luca like a fox in a trapping pit.

But that wasn’t right. It was Luca who was trapped here. Robert could leave whenever he wanted. He could leave right now and never come back.

“Don’t you want to sit?” Luca asked.

There was nowhere but the bed, of course. Robert’s eyes flicked to it uneasily.

“Do you want me to?”

“Please, Robert. You’ve been studying so hard, you deserve to relax.”

Robert looked a little reassured at that. He moved to the bed and sat with both feet squarely on the floor. Fine; Luca could work with that.

If Robert were any other man, Luca would kneel to serve him, ready to suck his cock while he sampled the wine. But Robert wouldn’t like that. For some reason Luca going to his knees always made him upset.

Instead Luca pressed the glass into Robert’s hand, letting the touch linger. Standing between Robert’s legs, he had to move only slightly to make the brush of his flank against Robert’s inner thigh seem accidental.

There was no mistaking the hitch in Robert’s breath, the flush rising under his collar. He was responding, even if it was only—what had he called it?—an involuntary reaction. Even if he didn’t really want Luca. That made perfect sense; really, Luca was stupid not to have realized sooner. When it was the right time, he could offer to be anybody Robert wanted. Or if Robert didn’t want him to pretend, then Luca could be nothing, nobody, just a hole for him to fill. Robert could close his eyes and imagine that the rest of Luca didn’t even exist. Luca did that all the time.

“Bagoas says this bottle is from Ibrerra,” said Luca, watching Robert take a sip. “Is it good?”

The wine left a red stain on Robert’s mouth.

“Would you like to try some?” he asked, not meeting Luca’s eyes.

“Yes, please.”

Luca didn’t let himself think. He just pressed his lips to Robert’s.

This was the dangerous part. With any other man, Luca would never have dared. Kissing Robert’s mouth was nothing like kissing his knee. Luca could be sent back to the fuckhouse for this. He could be sold to the Pig. But Robert was like Lord Samuel; unless Luca was bold, he would pace a hole in the floor without ever thinking to take what was his.

For one terrifying moment, Robert was stiff and unresponsive. Then he took a ragged breath. He pulled Luca closer, lips opening, tongue thrusting into his mouth.

Luca cupped Robert’s jaw, feeling the rough of stubble in his palms. He tasted smoke and mustard, but mostly he tasted Robert.

Luca pulled back just enough that he could speak.

“Is this all right?” he murmured.

Robert looked at him with dazed eyes. This close, Luca could see the ring of darker gray around his irises, the flecks of cobalt and pale green. Like a world in miniature.

“Gods, yes, this is all right.” Robert traced the outline of Luca’s jaw with his thumb. “Sometimes I think I’ve dreamed you.”

Their lips met again. Luca opened for Robert, drinking him in. His breath caught when Robert nipped his bottom lip.

Robert pulled back this time, breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against Luca’s.

“Do you like the wine?” Robert asked, quirking a brow.

Luca laughed, so deliriously happy that he did feel a little drunk after all.

“It’s delicious. Please, may I have more?”

Robert responded by kissing slowly up his throat. Luca’s eyes fluttered shut, pleasure curling up his spine. He had a sudden wild yearning for Robert to suck harder, bite down, leave a trail of claiming bruises so that all the men who touched Luca after would know who he belonged to.

“You can have whatever you want,” Robert murmured, breath hot against Luca’s ear.

_That’s my line_, Luca thought dizzily. His knee was already on the bed, Robert’s hand on his thigh (and when had that happened?); now he climbed into Robert’s lap, pressing their bodies together. He could feel the outline of Robert’s cock against his ass, hard and hot as iron. He wanted it inside of him more than he had ever let himself want anything.

Luca had chosen the shift because it covered more of his body than any of the other clothes he’d worn. He knew that Robert had seen all of him at Bacchanal and most of him at their previous appointments; what little clothing Luca was allowed had always been designed to be taken off. Still, he wanted to make his body new for Robert, to wrap it up like a present for him. Maybe then Robert would think it was something worth having.

Luca took a deep breath and unpinned the shoulder clasps of his shift. He pulled away the sheer fabric, leaving himself naked, exposed.

Immediately he regretted leaving in his navel piercing—would Robert think it was vulgar? And then there were the fingermarks on his hips, his waist, the outline of teeth around his nipple. The traces other men had left like graffiti on a public wall. Luca must look as fucked-out and used-up as he felt.

But Robert didn’t seem disgusted. He looked at Luca as if he couldn’t bring himself to look away. As if Luca was some exquisite treasure that could shatter at any moment.

Robert’s hands hovered over his skin, raising goosepimples. He made an abortive gesture, like he wanted desperately to touch but couldn’t let himself.

Luca licked his lips.

“Am I—my body, is it—”

“You’re perfect,” said Robert roughly. “Gods, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Luca let out a shuddering breath.

“You can—you can touch me, if you want.” Then, so quietly he almost couldn’t hear himself, “Please. Please touch me.”

Robert made a strangled noise halfway between a gasp and a groan. He ran his hands up and down Luca’s ribs, tracing the muscles in his stomach, his back. Luca could feel the power corded in him, the barely-restrained strength. Robert was trying to be gentle, but his hands were still big enough to wrap around Luca’s waist. He could snap him in half if he wanted to.

_Or he could leave and never come back…_

Luca shifted his weight, grinding down on Robert’s cock. His breeches were so thin that Luca could feel the ridge of Robert’s cockhead catch between his cheeks. Robert hissed, grip tightening around Luca’s hips. He still hadn’t touched Luca’s ass, but Luca could tell that he wanted to. He wanted to throw Luca face-down on the bed and bury himself inside. All he needed was a little encouragement.

“Please,” Luca whispered, bringing Robert’s hands to ass. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

Robert’s grip went tight, fingers kneading soft flesh. His teeth were clenched, pupils blown. He was so tense that he was almost vibrating. _Holding back, _Luca thought. But why? No man ever had before. Not even when Luca was still young and stupid enough to beg.

Luca would beg Robert to fuck him. He would get down on his knees and offer everything, every filthy thing he’d ever done, if only Robert would claim him that completely.

Robert looked as though he was at war with himself. His brow was furrowed, muscles jumping in his jaw.

Then he must have made some sort of decision, because his forehead smoothed. He gave Luca a smile that was shy and wicked all at once.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered.

Luca obeyed, trying to ignore the tug of unease. Wasn’t Robert the one who should want to close his eyes?

_Probably he’s going to do something that he doesn’t want you to see_, Luca told himself. And that was fine, that was more than fine. Robert could do anything he wanted. Luca didn’t need to see, or hear, or think. He didn’t even need to breathe unless Robert thought he’d earned the privilege.

Luca was so prepared for pain that when Robert’s mouth closed on his throat he expected to feel teeth, not the graze of a tongue. Then the mouth was on his ear, tongue flicking inside. A shiver ran from Luca’s scalp to his feet, making his toes curl.

Robert kissed down Luca’s neck. Wet suction and the rasp of stubble mingled into a single delicious sensation. Robert circled Luca’s nipples with the pads of his thumbs, working them into peaks.

Luca’s breath stuttered. His hands tightened around Robert’s arms. When Robert flicked the tip of his tongue around Luca’s areola, he gasped.

“Sensitive?” Robert murmured. Luca could hear that he was pleased.

Luca’s nipples weren’t sensitive, usually—they couldn’t be, with men always yanking and twisting and biting them. But when Robert’s mouth closed around a tight bud and sucked, it was as if Luca’s nerves had come alive. He hadn’t known that he could feel good there. That it was something he would be allowed.

Robert spent his time working Luca’s nipples into a state of such hypersensitivity that when he blew on them Luca moaned. Robert made an approving noise. He flicked one of Luca’s nipples, a bright shock of sensation that seemed to travel down his center line like fire.

“Can you lie back?” Robert asked.

Luca scrambled to obey. He spread his legs and lifted his hips in a wordless invitation. _Take me, fuck me, I’m ready for you, please_. His eyes were still closed; he hadn’t been given permission to open them, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He imagined that whatever tenuous hold he still had over himself would vanish if he saw Robert kneeling between his legs.

Then Robert’s hands were on his thighs and Luca was undone. He heard himself gasp—wet, ragged, so full of need he might as well have been begging. Robert’s fingers seemed to send jolts of heat through him, running up and down the inside of his legs. Luca felt—

He _felt_. That dangerous static gathering in his bottom belly. Like when the Beast rubbed the bad place inside. Like when Master Trainer—

_No_. Luca wasn’t going to think about that. He would control himself. He would show Robert how good he could be.

But when Robert’s mouth closed on his nipple again, Luca arched up like a drawn bow. The slick tease of his tongue, circling and flicking and then withdrawing so that Robert could bite down. Luca felt as though every nerve in his body was between Robert’s teeth. He was making noises—not the artful moans and sighs he used with clients, but noises pulled from deep inside of him. It was like hearing a stranger.

Robert’s mouth left his nipple and Luca almost sobbed.

“Gods, I can’t believe you’re real,” Robert groaned. “I can’t believe I get to touch you.”

Luca whimpered, spreading his legs as wide as he could. _Please touch me. Please_.

Distantly he registered how wanton he must seem, every inch the greedy little slut they’d always said he was. Luca had pretended this so many times, playing the part of the cock-hungry whore without ever understanding what it was to burn for a man.

He understood now. If Robert didn’t touch him soon, Luca thought that he would scream.

Robert’s mouth and hands were on him again, kissing a wet path down Luca’s stomach as he stroked the quivering skin of his inner thighs. Luca felt—between his legs, he felt, but he couldn’t, it wasn’t allowed. He wasn’t _allowed_.

Still, desire coiled in his belly like a spring. Like a snake.

_Don’t, _Luca thought, as much a plea as an order. This couldn’t be happening to him, not now, not with Robert. He’d been trained out of it. _A good slave thinks only of its master’s pleasure, never its own_. That was the last lesson, the one Luca had to learn more deeply than any other. Master Trainer had been so patient, carefully excising every last shred of disobedience from his filthy body. Teaching him how to be good.

_You want to be a good slave, don’t you, hole? _And he did, he did, more than—

(_Anything, __Master__, please_)

—to make the pain end. Lady, when would it end?

(_When you’ve learned your lesson, hole, and not before._)

But it worked, that was the important thing. It worked. By the time Master Trainer was finished with him, Luca couldn’t feel anything good down there at all.

Until now.

Robert kissed the crease of Luca’s hip and he couldn’t breathe. Like a void had opened inside of him. Robert dragged his teeth over Luca’s pubic bone and was he screaming? Someone was, but maybe that was a memory. Maybe that wasn’t real.

_I thought you’d learned your lesson, hole, but you’re too stupid for anything to stick. _

When Luca felt Robert’s mouth on his prick, he screamed.

Robert had thought the day was going really rather well, all things considered. He and Val had finally finished their essays for Tilney. They’d plagiarized each other liberally, but since their work would no doubt be consigned to the wastebasket once Tilney was satisfied that they’d learned their lesson, they were unconcerned with originality. Robert deposited the pages with Tilney’s secretary before setting out on his mission.

After polling everyone from friends to professors to the one librarian who always had chocolate on his upper lip, Robert believed he had identified the best patisserie in Lyonesse. It was certainly the most expensive: a bag of chocolate biscuits cost almost as much as a new pen cartridge. But they were gorgeous, great big decadent lumps chock full of cocoa chips. Robert couldn’t wait to see the look on Luca’s face.

Leaving the patisserie, Robert slowed down to look at the window display in the milliner’s shop next door. Jeweled hairpins on black velvet cushions. Most were vulgar work, the overlarge gems intended to provide beauty rather than to complement it. They’d look absurd on Luca.

But there was one, more delicate than the rest, that caught Robert’s eye. A bird wrought in gold, its wings outstretched.

Robert exited the milliner’s shop ten minutes later, having spent far more money than he intended, with the golden bird nestled in his waistcoat pocket.

Then Robert arrived at the Harlequin and went upstairs and opened the door and saw Luca kneeling on the floor with his legs spread and his arms behind his back, wearing the sort of outfit that left both everything and nothing to the imagination, and his best-laid plans came screeching to a halt before careening off in another direction entirely.

_Fuck_.

Robert had made a solemn vow to not so much as touch Luca’s hair without asking permission, but of course that went out the window the moment Luca slid his hands over Robert’s shoulders. When he dropped to his knees at Robert’s feet, it was all Robert could do to keep circulating oxygen into his body. Then Luca took his boot off, revealing socks as yellow and full of holes as a piece of cheese, and Robert came very close to actually dying of shame.

But Luca didn’t laugh. He brushed his lips against the inside of Robert’s knee so lightly the gesture was almost a question.

_Fuck, _his mouth was too close. If Robert didn’t stop this now, he wasn’t going to be able to say no if Luca started to unlace his breeches.

“Luca…”

Luca cringed like he’d been slapped. Gods, the fear in his voice when he apologized. When he asked permission to _stand_, as though he thought Robert would make him crawl as punishment for gods knew what infraction. No wonder he scurried away with the excuse of pouring wine. Five minutes into the appointment and Robert already had him stark bloody terrified.

Perhaps he should be terrified. Robert couldn’t tear his eyes away from the shape of Luca’s body under that sheer scrap of nothing. His long legs leading up to that high, tight ass. Robert imagined that his hands would fit over each cheek perfectly, as though they’d been designed for him to squeeze.

Scald the damn land. Luca was gorgeous, and Robert shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near him.

Robert was so consumed with self-loathing that when Luca turned and asked if he wanted to sit, it felt like a trick question. The only place to sit was the bed, where Robert absolutely should not be.

But Luca looked at him with those liquid eyes and said, “Please, Robert. You’ve been studying so hard, you deserve to relax.”

Well, if Robert refused now, it would just be suspicious. Luca would ask why, and there was no response Robert could give that wouldn’t be incriminating.

So he sat on the stupid bed, trying to suppress the feeling that he’d just strolled into a trap.

Luca gave him the glass—because of course there was only one glass; Luca would never think to pour wine for himself. His fingers grazed Robert’s wrist, his thigh brushing Robert’s thigh. His eyes were lowered, shadowed by thick lashes. Through the gauzy fabric of the shift, Robert could see Luca’s nipples, his navel piercing. He could see his cock, as soft as Robert’s was achingly hard.

Robert’s mouth was dry. He knocked back the wine, noting through the haze of arousal that it was a truly excellent Ibrerran pinot. A bottle like this deserved a lot more appreciation than Robert was going to give it. Because, _fuck_, how could wine compare to Luca? How could anything? He was the eighth wonder of the world, and Robert was an unworthy pervert.

“Is it good?” Luca asked.

Robert couldn’t even bring himself to look up. He was so furious with himself, so furiously turned on, that he wanted to sink into the floor.

“Would you like to try some?”

“Yes, please.”

And Luca was kissing him.

For a moment, Robert couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

Then his body moved of its own accord, pulling Luca to him and pushing into his mouth. Fuck whatever stupid promises Robert had made himself; Luca wanted this. He wanted Robert. And Robert was too weak, too human, to resist.

When Luca broke the kiss to ask, “Was that all right?,” Robert had to swallow a bubble of mad laughter. All the blood formerly in his head was currently throbbing in his cock; it took a moment to formulate a response. He could only gaze dumbstruck into Luca’s eyes—those jewel-like eyes, so dark a blue they were violet.

“Gods, yes, that was all right.” Did Robert sound as daft and dazed to Luca as he did to himself? “Sometimes I think I’ve dreamed you.”

Robert hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud, but that didn’t matter, because Luca was kissing him again. He opened so eagerly for Robert, meeting the clumsy thrust of his tongue with a sweet sigh.

_Fucking perfect, sweetheart_.

Robert had to pull back in order to catch his breath. He pressed their foreheads together, taking in Luca’s swollen mouth, his flushed cheeks. Fields of hell, he was gorgeous like this. Well, he was always gorgeous, but like this especially. When Luca was his, Robert would kiss him senseless five times a day at least.

_Say something funny, _Robert told himself. He made some idiotic comment about liking the wine, which Luca laughed at, thank all the gods. His face when he laughed—Robert didn’t think that Ganymene himself could have possibly been this beautiful.

Then Luca asked for more. Robert couldn’t resist the temptation of Luca’s throat, bared so prettily for him. Robert had never given much thought to Luca’s collar, the thin band of metal marking him a slave, but now he resented it for covering even an inch of his boy. As he kissed his way up to Luca’s ear, Robert had to fight the urge to bruise that delicate skin with his lips and teeth so that every man who touched him after would know who he belonged to.

“You can have whatever you want,” Robert said. He hoped that Luca knew how much he meant it.

Apparently what Luca wanted was to climb into Robert’s lap and rub his sweet little ass against Robert’s erection. Robert might have come from that alone had he not been distracted by Luca unclasping his shift.

It fell away to reveal—gods, all of him. That lithe, supple body, the lean muscle in his chest and arms tapering into the exquisitely narrow stem of his waist. His delicate collarbone, the rosy buds of his nipples, golden hair falling over his shoulders—_fuck_. Robert had seem Luca naked before, but somehow this still felt like the first time.

Robert wanted very badly to run his hands and mouth over every inch of Luca. But he was too perfect for Robert to touch. It would be sacrilege, like defacing a temple idol. And damn it, hadn’t Robert promised himself? Not even Luca’s hair. Well, that vow had gone up in flames.

The tip of Luca’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. His chest was flushed, eyes lowered, as though he couldn’t meet Robert’s gaze. Was he nervous? What did he possibly have to be nervous about? Surely he knew how stunning he was.

“Am I—my body, is it—”

The note of uncertainty in his voice wrenched Robert’s heart. There were no words to do him justice, but still Robert tried. _Perfect. Beautiful._ Luca was everything Robert had ever wanted, a dream made flesh.

When Luca asked Robert to touch him—_please_, he said, as though that were something he had to beg for—Robert’s hands were on him before he could think. Luca was all soft skin over spare muscle, the lines of him so finely wrought that Robert felt like an oaf. He’d never thought much about his own body, seeing it as a tool rather than an aesthetic object, but now, touching Luca, he couldn’t help but compare his own clumsy, gangling form to Luca’s slender, delicate one. Robert was used to being half a head taller than everyone around him, but next to Luca he looked like a mountain troll.

Still, there was something undeniably erotic in that disparity. Luca had the sort of fragility that made Robert want to protect and ravish him all at once.

Perhaps that thought showed too clearly on Robert’s face. When he wrapped his hands around Luca’s waist, he felt a small tremor run through him. Was Robert being too rough?

But then Luca was grinding down on him, perfect fucking pressure on Robert’s overheated cock. Was wearing the breeches that had been laundered to paper-thinness the best or worst idea that Robert had ever had?

He forgot to be gentle, digging his fingers into Luca’s hips. He wanted desperately to grab the perfect peach-halves of Luca’s ass, but that was probably—_definitely_—a bad idea.

Because, _fuck,_ Luca wasn’t even hard. His cock lay flaccid between his thighs, completely disinterested in the proceedings.

Was he nervous, maybe? Had Robert frightened him?

Robert didn’t have time to pursue that thought further, because Luca picked up his hands and moved them to the soft swell of his ass. Robert had been right; each cheek fit perfectly in his palm. He had the giddy thought that his hands were made for this—not for a sword or a pen, but for mapping the contours of Luca’s body.

“Don’t make me wait any longer,” Luca murmured, and Robert almost split his drawers.

But. _But. _What had Val said about sex with slaves? _If you own him, or if his owner is sharing him with you, then he can’t refuse._ Robert had known that, of course; he’d just never put the knowledge in the context of his relationship with Luca. Yes, Luca was a pleasure slave and Robert was a client at his master’s brothel, but that was only a technicality, wasn’t it? The difference in rank didn’t really mean anything to either of them. It was a complication, an obstacle to be overcome, not an obligation that bound Luca to acts of forced submission.

But Luca wasn’t hard. He was naked, he was saying all the right things, he’d put Robert’s hands on his ass like it was a damn present, but it was as if his cock was completely disconnected from the rest of him. Was he only pretending to want Robert? Playing the role that he thought was required of him?

No. Robert refused to believe that. If it was true then everything that had ever passed between them was a lie.

Which left the possibility that Luca simply didn’t realize that he was allowed to respond when Robert touched him. That Robert wanted him to respond—_needed_ him to, in fact, if there was ever going to be anything sexual between them. Pleasure slaves generally didn’t; Robert remembered some discussion of the matter among Francis’s circle at High Parlor. That was part of the appeal, apparently, having a life-size doll with no desires of its own. Robert had always just assumed that he and Luca shared an understanding that things weren’t like that with them.

But what if he’d assumed wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time, or even the hundredth. Robert seemed to have a virtually unlimited capacity for mistakes when it came to Luca.

In fact, Luca’s lack of interest below the waist made a twisted sort of sense. Sex had always been something that was done to him, not with him or for him. Maybe Luca couldn’t imagine it any other way. He didn’t know how good it could be.

Well, then, Robert would show him.

Robert emerged from his thoughts to see Luca watching—no, scrutinizing him. Luca was always hyper-attuned to every fluctuation in Robert’s expression, his body language, trying to anticipate what Robert wanted. He was so focused on Robert’s pleasure that he wasn’t thinking of his own.

Robert took a deep breath and flashed Luca a smile.

“Close your eyes?” he asked.

Luca obeyed immediately. Robert tried to repress the thought that if he’d told Luca to put out his eyes with his thumbs, he would probably do so with exactly as little hesitation.

Robert started with Luca’s throat, licking a slow trail up from the notch between his collarbones. When Robert tongued his ear, Luca gasped, fingers curling around Robert’s arms. His cheeks and his chest were the same shade of pink.

_So damned sexy, sweetheart_, Robert thought. Even when he wasn’t trying to be. Especially then.

Perhaps Robert should have spent more time kissing Luca, getting him relaxed, but he couldn’t keep his hands off Luca’s chest. His nipples fit perfectly between Robert’s fingers, hardening into tight red nubs. Luca proved to be deliciously responsive, every lick and twist and nibble wringing wet needy noises that went straight to Robert’s cock. Robert could probably come just from playing with him.

He’d have to test that theory sometime, but not today. Luca was enjoying this, if the look on his face was any indication, but he was still soft. Which really just gave Robert an excuse to move his mouth in a northerly direction.

Had Luca ever had his cock sucked? He must have.

Well, Robert might not be a pleasure slave, but he’d had a lot of practice at performing this particular act, and his partners certainly couldn’t fault him for lack of enthusiasm. There were few things he enjoyed as much as getting his mouth on a pretty boy.

“Can you lie back?” Robert asked.

Luca’s face lit up. His eyes were still closed; he didn’t open them, not even as he lay down and spread his legs in one elegant movement. All laid out like the best meal of Robert’s life. Luca’s cock curled against the crest of his hip, sac drawn up above that tight little pink pucker. Robert imagined getting Luca ready with his tongue, licking him deep, getting him wet and open before sliding in a finger, two, Luca clenching as Robert found his sweet spot, stroked, rubbed, took Luca’s balls in his mouth, Luca’s cock down his throat, sucked and fingered him until Luca came crying out his name…

The fantasy was so vivid that Robert had to get his mouth on Luca’s nipples again. It was that or his cock, and Luca still wasn’t hard enough for a blowjob yet, although—victory!—he wasn’t completely soft. The blush seemed to have traveled down between his legs. His cockhead was shiny, swollen, the ridge flushed red. Robert hadn’t seen many uncircumcised men; it was more common in Ermin, and the barbarians were infamous for cutting infants as some sort of savage test of pain. But, fuck, Luca’s cock was perfect. More naked somehow without that covering of foreskin.

Robert’s mouth was watering. He was painfully hard. Of course he couldn’t put his cock in Luca today; he’d made a promise, and he kept his promises. Besides, he hadn’t forgotten his conversation with Val. If Robert took Luca here, like this, it would be—again his mind skittered away from the word _rape_. It would be wrong, anyway.

But Robert needed to be sure that Luca wanted him, truly wanted him. That he wasn’t just—well, surrendering. He needed Luca to trust that Robert would always make sex good for him.

If Robert was being honest with himself, he knew that they should probably start slow. He could get Luca off with his hand, maybe, and then they could talk about what they liked, what they wanted from each other. But Luca was spread out for him, panting and gasping and arching into his touch. It was the single most erotic thing that Robert had ever seen, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop now.

He kissed down Luca’s stomach, enjoying the way the defined plane of muscle trembled under his lips. Luca seemed to like it when Robert stroked his thighs; the muscles there were trembling too. And his cock—_yes_, his cock was thickening against his belly.

Scald the land, Robert had never seen anything hotter than Luca getting hard.

Luca’s breath was coming in shallow little gasps. His hands fisted the bedsheets, knuckles white. He was so aroused that he was shaking.

Then Robert tried to suck his cock and everything went to hell.

It took a long time to calm Luca down. Every time Robert thought he was through the worst of it, a fresh wave of panic rose to drag him under. He’d thrown himself to the floor, where he crouched with his fingers tangled in his hair, breath coming in tight gasps as he rocked violently back and forth. Robert knelt beside him, murmuring apologies and assurances, pleading with him to _breathe, sweetheart, please, just breathe for me_.

He wasn’t sure if Luca heard him. His eyes were wide and blind with fear. Whatever horrors he was seeing, Robert didn’t think that Luca even knew he was there.

Finally the shivering seemed to subside. Luca was still breathing too fast, but at least he wasn’t hyperventilating.

Abruptly, he shoved himself to his feet and staggered to the washstand in the corner, into which he proceeded to be sick.

Emptying his stomach seemed to take the last of Luca’s strength. He slid down the wall and crumpled into a heap on the floor. If it wasn’t for the way his shoulders shook, Robert wouldn’t have known he was crying. He didn’t make any sound at all.

Robert crouch-walked across the room, holding up his hands like he was approaching a frightened animal. When he felt Robert closing in on him, Luca curled tighter even as his legs jerked open. As if he was expecting to be beaten before the rape, or hit during it.

_Just a reflex, _Robert told himself. _It isn’t you he’s afraid of._

Even in his head, the words rang hollow. Like something a monster would say to reassure himself.

“I’m sorry,” Robert said, because however many times he’d already apologized, it wasn’t enough. He would spend the rest of his life begging Luca to forgive him if it would take a little of thes anguish from his face.

Luca scrubbed a hand over his eyes. Strands of hair were caught in the sticky tracks on his cheek. Without thinking, Robert went to brush them away. Luca sobbed and cringed. Robert pulled back, cursing himself.

Then, in a voice so small and cracked that Robert could barely hear him, Luca whispered, “Please don’t stop.”

Robert exhaled. Moving slowly, carefully, he stroked his fingers through Luca’s hair. Luca flinched again, but in the next moment he pressed closer. Robert found the divot under Luca’s nape and rubbed until some of the stiffness eased from his spine.

Robert cleared his throat.

“So,” he said. “We should probably talk about this.”

Luca made a small, broken noise.

“Was it a test?”

“Was what a test?”

“Touching me like that.” He took a shuddering breath. “I failed, didn’t I? If you let me try again, I’ll do better, I swear—”

“Sweetheart, I wasn’t testing you. I wanted you to enjoy it.”

“But I’m not _allowed_,” said Luca, sounding perilously close to tears again.

“What do you mean? Of course you’re allowed, I want you to—”

Abruptly, Luca shoved himself up on his arm. His face was wet and blotchy, eyelashes clumped with tears.

“You can’t want that,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s _disgusting._”

Robert stared at him.

“Is that what you think when I get hard? That I’m disgusting?”

“_No!_ That’s completely different. You’re supposed to get hard, I’m supposed to make you hard, that’s what I’m _for_. A pleasure slave that can’t please its master is worthless.”

“Let me see if I understand,” said Robert carefully. “I’m allowed—I’m _supposed_—to get hard, but you aren’t?”

Luca nodded, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Using me isn’t like being with a real person,” he explained. “I’m like your hand, or a toy, only better, because I can do whatever you want, be whoever you want. You can do anything to me. Fuck me, hurt me. My body exists for you. I live to serve your pleasure.”

All this was said in the same matter-of-fact tone in which Luca used to recite his lessons.

“No,” said Robert—too loudly; Luca flinched. “No, Luca, I don’t believe that. You’re a human being, for gods’ sake, not some sort of, of _doll_, or…”

He broke off, running a shaky hand over his face. “Have you really never come with a man?”

Luca jerked back like Robert had hit him.

“Lady, no! I’ve been too forward with you, Robert, I’ve behaved so badly, but I know my place, I do, I _do_. I would never, ever forget myself when I’m being used, I _swear_.”

Gods, the desperation in his voice. Frantic to convince Robert, so sure that Robert needed to be convinced.

Robert pushed his hands through his hair, feeling hopelessly out of his depth.

“Where did you learn all of this?” _Who do I need to kill?_

Luca swallowed.

“At the training house.”

“How did they—”

“I’m not allowed to talk about that.” Then, softly, “Please. Please don’t ask.”

“I won’t,” said Robert. He repressed the urge to pull Luca to him and kiss him until he forgot every awful thing that had ever been done to him. “Just—just let me get this straight. You only get off when you touch yourself?”

Luca frowned.

“Touch myself?”

“You know, when you—”

Robert made a vague but unmistakable crotchward gesture. For a moment, Luca didn’t seem to understand. Then he gasped with horror.

“No. _No. _I don’t do that, I don’t ever do that. I haven’t, I wouldn’t, not ever.”

“Luca…” Robert didn’t even know where to begin. “Have you ever had an orgasm?”

Luca looked physically sickened by the idea.

“Of course not. That would be wrong. My body isn’t supposed to work that way.”

“You’re an eighteen-year old male,” said Robert, trying to keep the rage from his voice. “How do you think your body is supposed to work?”

All of the expression left Luca’s face.

“As a hole for my master to use.”

_Oh, fields of hell, what have they done to this boy?_

“You are not a hole,” Robert said, as firmly as he dared.

Luca shook his head.

“That’s all I am.”

“No, Luca,” said Robert quietly. “You’re everything.”

And then, without any conscious intention, Robert was saying the words that he had meant to save for the day Luca became his.

“I love you.”

Of all the times Robert had played this scene in his mind, it never involved Luca shoving himself away, jumping to his feet, and starting to pace.

“No, Robert. You can’t mean that.”

That was not the response that Robert was hoping for. He scrambled up, feeling thoroughly wrong-footed.

“Well—why the hell not?”

Luca rounded on him.

“Because you’re brilliant and handsome and strong and you always know the right thing to say, and you’re _kind_, you’re kind even when you don’t have to be—you’re so good, so clean, you’re _perfect, _and I—” He broke off, a shutter closing over his face. “I know what I am.”

Robert grabbed Luca’s arms and pulled him in. Luca was stiff for only a moment before melting into him, his hands coming up to twist in Robert’s shirt.

“What you are, Luca, is sweet, and loyal, and so damn smart it scares me sometimes,” said Robert, taking Luca’s face in his hands. “I love you. I fall more in love with you every time I see you. But if you don’t feel the same way—”

“Of course I do! I’ve loved you since I was eleven. I never stopped.” Luca scrubbed a hand over his eyes, looking furious with himself when it came away wet. “Bagoas knows. Asher, too. I didn’t tell them, they just—figured it out, I suppose. I’ve never been any good at hiding it.”

“What did they say?”

“That it’s dangerous.” He looked away. “Bagoas told me that gentle hearts are made for breaking.”

“I won’t break your heart, Luca. I’d rather cut mine out.”

Something in Luca seemed to give way. He buried his face in Robert’s chest.

“Every time you leave I’m afraid that you’ll never come back,” he said, voice muffled.

“Is that what today was about? Making sure I’ll come back?”

Luca hesitated. Then, in a small voice, he said, “I know that I’m only good for one thing. What do you want me for if not that?”

“I _do_ want you for that,” said Robert. “I am, as you may have noticed, deeply, desperately attracted to you. But I want you for your mind as well. You’re my favorite person to talk to. And if, gods willing, I pass my damn quals, that’ll be your doing.” He tucked a strand of Luca’s hair behind his ear. “You make the whole world new. I love you for that as much as for your body.”

Robert couldn’t tell whether or not Luca believed him. He’d ducked his head, lashes shadowing his eyes. He had his bottom lip between his teeth—not biting, just sucking on it for comfort. His expression was unreadable.

Well, there would be time enough to convince Luca after Robert bought him. He would spend every day of the rest of their lives undoing the damage that had been done to Luca if that’s what it took.

“I have ten minutes left of this appointment and a bag of very expensive chocolate biscuits melting in my coat pocket,” said Robert. “If you’re up for it, I’d like to spend that time stuffing our faces. What d’you think?”

A smile bloomed on Luca’s face.

“Yes, please.”

“Oh, and I almost forgot. I have a present for you.”

Robert took the package from his waistcoat pocket and pressed it into Luca’s palm. Luca unfolded the tissue paper carefully, revealing the golden hairpin. He made a soft noise, touching the bird’s outstretched wing.

“Not a book, I’m afraid,” said Robert, feeling suddenly nervous. Men probably gave Luca far more valuable gifts than this all the time.

“It’s wonderful. It’s perfect.” Luca’s fingers curled around the hairpin. His expression shifted, hardening into resolve. “I won’t let anyone take it away.”

Robert was about to ask who had been taking things from Luca, then thought better of it. Luca probably didn’t want to tell him, and Robert wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“May I?” Robert asked instead, gesturing to the hairpin.

Luca nodded. Robert swept Luca’s hair into a knot and slid the pin into place. It nestled perfectly at the base of his skull, a flourish of darker gold.

“How does it look?” Luca asked, turning so that Robert could get the full effect.

“Beautiful,” said Robert. “You’re beautiful, sweetheart.”

Luca ducked his head. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he went up on his toes and kissed the corner of Robert’s mouth.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“I will always come back for you, Luca,” Robert said. “Wherever you are, I’ll find you. That’s a promise.”

“You always keep your promises,” said Luca, half to himself. He touched Robert’s face. “I love you. I do. So much.”

Their lips met again. Luca pressed himself to Robert, lacing their hands together and pulling him closer. Robert felt desire and desperation so hopelessly twisted together that he wasn’t sure he could ever untangle them.

*

_Luca is on a bed. He knows this bed; it’s where Master Trainer fucks him when he’s been a good hole. But Master Trainer isn’t here, and Luca is not allowed to touch a bed he isn’t being fucked on. _

_Before he can move, a warm, solid weight presses down on top of him. It has the shape of a man, but Luca isn’t afraid. How is it that he can be under a man and not afraid?_

Open for me, sweetheart.

_Luca spreads his legs. Still there is no fear, only the sweetness of anticipation. Then the man is over him, inside of him, and even though this is the bed where Master Trainer fucks him, Luca feels no pain. If there is an opposite of pain, that is what Luca feels._

_The not-pain intensifies until Luca is writhing under the man, urging him harder, faster. When their lips meet, the taste of him is familiar. His hands, his body, that vivid, seeking heat—Luca knows the man as well as he knows the beat of his own heart._

You’re mine. You’re mine forever.

_He arcs up, dissolving into light._

*

Luca woke with the blanket damp and tangled around his legs. He was sticky between his thighs like he’d been fucked—only that wasn’t possible, was it? He would’ve woken up.

Luca pushed himself up onto his elbows. The dormitory was dark, filled with the soft snuffling noises of sleeping boys. Beside him, Asher was fighting his blanket. Luca went to soothe him, then pulled his hand back. No, he shouldn’t touch Asher like this. Not until he was clean.

Luca bundled up his soiled blanket and picked his way through the dormitory and out into the corridor. He listened for a moment, but the house was quiet; even the space under Bagoas’s door was dark. It must be very early in the morning, then. That was a piece of luck. Less chance of running into Sark or one of the house slaves and having to explain why he was up.

He took one of the low-burning oil lamps from the wall and made his way to the showers. Absent the usual bathtime din, Luca could hear the pipes clanking and murmuring to themselves. He set the lamp on a ledge by the door. It threw eerie flickers over the walls and ceiling.

Luca had the sudden curious urge to put his finger in the flame. To watch his skin blister and blacken, burning away whatever dirty dreams still lurked in him.

Luca shook himself. _Haunted, _he thought, remembering the boy who’d died here. He probably wasn’t the first. There was death in this room; Luca shouldn’t linger.

He turned on the tap in the far corner, which had a reputation for raining icewater. The pipe groaned before spitting down a spray so cold that Luca instinctively cringed away.

_That isn’t how you get clean, hole_, the voice reminded him.

Luca took a deep breath and forced himself to turn into the freezing water. It fell on him like a lash, turning his skin white. Teeth chattering, he grabbed the soap and a brush. The bristles were stiff, leaving angry red scratches between his legs when he scrubbed there. He wanted to scrub harder, to scour away everything, every filthy, useless, disobedient part of him.

_What do you even need that part for, anyway, hole? It’ll only get you in trouble._

Luca grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. He sat under the spray with his knees to his chest. It didn’t take long before he stopped feeling the cold. Even when he turned off the shower and sat shivering as hand-shaped shadows crawled over him, Luca didn’t feel anything. He felt nothing at all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a graphic description of the aftermath of (off-screen) torture.

For all the weeks of preparation, the headaches, the nightmares, quals passed in a blur. Afterward, Robert couldn’t have said whether he’d done well or bombed completely. He declined Val’s invitation to autopsy their performance and instead staggered up to his room, where he faceplanted on the bed. It would take a day for grades to go up, and Robert planned to spend it unconscious.

For once, his body complied. Robert sank at once into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He was shaken awake many hours later by Val, who shouted that the pass list had been posted on the door of Cuyler Library. They both stumbled out of the flat wearing the same clothes they’d sat the test in and joined the mob stampeding across the quad.

The steps of the library were already thronging with students, some jubilant but most in various stages of grief. Robert used his height to ruthless advantage, bullying his way up the stairs and dragging Val one-handed in his wake. The list had been posted high up on the doors so that it couldn’t be torn down; Robert had to crane his neck to read it. He scanned the F’s, locating Val’s name at once.

“There you are,” he shouted over the din, stabbing his finger. “Nthandavaltunde Fawcett, Highest Honors. Well done, Mother!”

He looked down to see Val crying actual tears. Robert turned away to give him some privacy.

Hugo’s name wasn’t on the list, though that was no great surprise. Robert hadn’t seen him in the exam hall; he doubted that Hugo even sat the test. There was Adrian, predictably, taking High Honors with the same insouciant ease with which he did everything. Robert saw both Oliver Dalton and Piers Ambrose, neither with honors, though he doubted their fathers would care. He was unsurprised not to see Giles Clifford, but shocked to find Francis’s name missing. He was in for an unpleasant meeting with Lord Mountbatten.

As he located the names of friends and enemies, Robert found his eyes continually returning to the F’s. No matter how many times he scanned the list, his name failed to materialize.

At his elbow, Val had come to the same realization.

“They must have made a mistake.”

A cold, hard knot had settled in Robert’s throat. He tried to swallow around it. Tried to smile, to shrug, working his body like a marionette.

“The Board doesn’t make mistakes.”

“But this doesn’t make any _sense!_” Val sounded like he was about to burst into tears again. “We studied together, you ran laps around me—”

“That doesn’t mean anything on the day, Val. You know that.” He clapped Val on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Mother. I’ll take it again in Spring with the rest of the rabble.”

Robert turned to go. Each step felt like sinking lower along the lip of a drain. Had it been torts? Contracts? He hadn’t studied Falkenrath enough, or Hardwick. And he should’ve started studying last semester, like Val. Hell, for all Adrian’s pretense to apathy, even he had been sneaking off to a tutor. And Robert had mocked him for it, like the overconfident ass he’d always been. Did he really think that he could sweep quals in a last-minute blaze of glory? Scald the land, he was a fool. He didn’t deserve Luca. And Argent would never offer Robert that sort of blank check now, not even if he managed to pass in Spring. He might as well just slink off to the Bursar’s office with his tail between his legs and withdraw…

“Robert! _Robert!_” Val’s hand landed on Robert’s shoulder, spinning him around. “You’re on the list.”

“What are you taking about?”

“We were looking for your name in the wrong place. Come _on_.”

Robert let Val drag him back up the stairs. When he pointed at the list, Robert reluctantly followed his finger with his eyes. Val wasn’t directing him to the F’s, but the A’s.

And there, between _Ardsley, Thomas _and _Arkema, Lourens_, Robert found his name.

_Lord Robert Argent III. Highest Honors._

The list slid out of focus. It wasn’t until Robert blinked that he realized his eyes were brimming with tears.

He swiped the back of his hand over his face, hoping that the crowd was too distracted to notice that it came away wet. Next to him, Val was hopping up and down and shouting like a madman.

“You did it! You did it!”

“_We _did it.” He clapped Val on the shoulder. “Highest fucking Honors. What does that make us, two out of ten?”

“Two out of eight this year,” a dry voice informed him.

Robert turned to see Adrian leaning against the handrail. A cigarette dangled from his fingers. If it wasn’t for the slight tremor shaking flakes of ash from the tip, Robert would have thought Adrian the only man on campus unmoved by the chaos. Only the hollows under his eyes betrayed him. He’d pulled as many all-nighters as Robert and Val.

“Congratulations, Lord Argent,” said Adrian, mouth quirking at the corner.

Robert found that he was grinning despite himself. 

“And you, Lord Courtney.”

Adrian’s bow was only half-mocking. He turned to go, calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll see you at Highcourt.”

The next few hours passed in a blur. Robert and Val made laps around the quad with the other passes, cheered on by a crowd of good-humored fails. The lap ended at the campus tavern, where the barkeep bellied up pitcher after pitcher of stout brown ale. This brew was famous for having the flavor of mud and the kick of a mule. Robert drank half a pitcher immediately, at which point it made sense to simply continue at the same rate. He had somehow acquired a paper crown made out of exam paper; Val was wearing one as well. When Robert shouted that he needed to get to the Harlequin, half the tavern shouted back, _Oh no you don’t!_

Robert took it that this wasn’t the first time he’d made that announcement. He realized in the next moment that he had no idea how long he’d been here, and that he must be very drunk indeed.

“I really do have to get to the Harlequin,” Robert shouted to Val under the din.

Val grinned, chin in his palm. The paper crown had slipped down over one eye, but he didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Is that where you’ve been disappearing to on Tuesday afternoons? I thought it must be a boy.”

“Can’t put anything past you.”

“Gosh, Fitz, the look on your face. He must be Ganymene incarnate.”

“He is. Gods, you’ve no idea. He’s amazing. I can’t wait for you to meet him.” Robert slapped the table. “I want you to meet him. Today. Right now.”

“What—”

He didn’t have time to finish that thought, because Robert had grabbed his arm and was dragging him out of the tavern. Outside, shadows were lengthening on the quad; the great clock on Cuyler Library read 5 o’clock. Gods, when had that happened?

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Val panted, half-galloping to keep up with Robert’s long-legged strides. “We can’t just burst into a brothel and demand to see your favorite boy.”

“Lord Robert Argent III can do whatever the hell he likes,” said Robert, rounding the corner to the flat.

The door swung open—they’d been too distracted this morning to lock it, apparently—and they thundered up the stairs.

Tolliver was waiting in the common room. He greeted Robert with a bland smile.

“Ah, good. I was just about to loose Alfred to run you to ground.”

Robert followed his gaze to the kitchenette, where Alfred was examining the contents of the sink with equal parts horror and fascination. When Robert tried to demand what in the hell they were doing here, drunkenness contrived to translate the question into a squawk of indignation.

Tolliver raised an eyebrow, but pointedly didn’t comment.

“My lord Argent has been informed of your miraculous achievement,” he said. “He invites you to dine tonight at Lightcliffe.”

Robert knew that sort of invitation; it was a command that knocked before it entered. He had to quash the desire to tell Tolliver exactly where he could shove it.

“What, did the Dean personally deliver my scores or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Robert. Scholars are tradespeople. The Dean would never dream of visiting the Grand Chancellor without an invitation. No, he sent a runner with the happy news this morning.”

Before the list was posted, no doubt. That explained Robert’s last-minute alphabetical promotion.

“I’m surprised Argent didn’t send you earlier,” said Robert.

Tolliver gave a thin smile.

“In his liberality, my lord allowed you some time to…revel… before dispatching me to collect you.”

“How generous of him. What time am I expected?”

“Half an hour ago. I sent the footman to inform my lord that you were unavoidably detained.”

He looked Robert up and down, then winced, as though the very sight of him was agony.

“Fortunately I was foresightful enough to bring a shaving kit and a suit of clothes.”

Robert was spared the unpleasant business of having to thank him by the arrival of Hugo. He was wearing the same clothes Robert had last seen him in almost a week ago. There were hollows under his eyes; his chin was fuzzy with several days’ growth. When he saw Tolliver, he opened his mouth to make some arch remark.

Then he saw Alfred and was brought up short. Robert didn’t miss the look that passed between them. It was the look of men who’d met before, under circumstances neither was willing to divulge.

Whatever Hugo was involved in, Alfred was knee-deep beside him.

In the next moment, Hugo had regained his composure.

“I’m gone for a few days and you move in a new flatmate?” he said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “Break my heart, why don’t you.”

“A few days?” Val hissed. “More like the better part of a _week!_ And not a word from you the whole time. I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been. Did you even sit the test?”

“Better things to do, Mother.”

Tolliver cleared his throat. He gave Robert a prompting look.

“This is Tolliver, the Keeper of the Keys at Lightcliffe Hall,” Robert sighed. “Tolliver, these are my flatmates, Hugo Forteys and Nthandavaltunde Fawcett.”

Alfred looked up with interest upon hearing Val’s name.

“My granddad’s Djénde,” he said. “Are your mother’s people from Kanem or Kawere?”

“Kanem,” said Val, reddening. “Uh, most people just call me Val.”

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” said Hugo. “Fitz, a word?”

The last thing Robert wanted was another earful of Hugo’s propaganda.

“I need to fill the bath,” he said, heading towards the stairs.

Tolliver fell smoothly into step.

“Already done. I will attend you.”

“That really isn’t necessary—”

But Tolliver was already striding up the stairs ahead of him. Robert grit his teeth and followed.

For all he resented Tolliver’s very polite home invasion, Robert had to admit that the man knew how to draw a bath. The waters were the perfect temperature, sprinkled with fresh-smelling salts. Robert was too full of ale to object when Tolliver not only stayed in the room but insisted on shaving him with the speed and precision of an emergency surgeon.

“How satisfying to see a human face emerge from the underbrush,” said Tolliver drily, patting Robert’s cheeks with rum-scented aftershave. “And not an unhandsome one, either. You might consider keeping your shave this close, Robert. Unless, of course, you wish to continue impersonating a Docktown vagrant.”

“Well, since I’ve kept up the ruse this long,” said Robert, hauling himself out of the bath and grabbing the proffered towel.

Once Robert was dry, Tolliver dressed him, clucking over the state of his wardrobe. The suit of clothes didn’t include stockings, and Robert’s all had holes in them.

“Where _have_ you been wasting your allowance?” Tolliver groaned, doing something with the cuffs of Robert’s breeches so that the moth-bites in his best stockings didn’t show quite so badly.

“Paradiso,” said Robert cheerfully. “And you wouldn’t believe how expensive chocolate biscuits are these days.”

Tolliver rolled his eyes.

“A jester and a vagabond. Well, at least you no longer look like one.”

Robert was about to make a retort about sow’s ears and silk purses. Then Tolliver turned him around to look at himself in the mirror and the words died on his lips.

“You really do look just like your father,” said Tolliver, fussing with Robert’s collar.

Robert slapped his hand away.

“If that was intended as a compliment, I’m insulted.”

“No one could say that Lord Robert was an unattractive man.”

“For everything else they said about him.”

“A word of advice, Robert?” said Tolliver, arching his brow. “Remove the chip from your shoulder before you see my lord tonight. Your mouth is really quite distinguished now that I’ve pruned back the scrub; I would hate to see you ruin my work by sticking your foot in it.”

Robert had to admit that the advice was sound. Still, the moment Tolliver’s back was turned he grabbed the flask from the desk and hid it in his waistcoat pocket.

He took nips of whiskey as the carriage climbed the hill to Lightcliffe. From the window, Robert could see Lyonesse spread out beneath him. He spied the stone spires of University. There was a bright blaze of flame on the quad. The fails had lit the bonfire late this year; they must have had a devil of a time getting the list down. He imagined the words _Lord Robert Argent III_ curling into ash and flying up into the darkening blue. Perhaps a wind would carry them Paradiso, where Luca would smile without quite knowing why.

When the footmen opened the great double doors of Lightcliffe and bowed Robert inside, he was greeted by what must have been half the household arrayed in the foyer. They burst into applause, punctuated by whistles and shouts and congratulation. The wave of goodwill was so overwhelming that Robert would have staggered back if it wasn’t for Tolliver’s hand between his shoulders, guiding him gently but firmly towards Argent’s office.

The doors opened to reveal Argent standing by the open window, half in shadow. His expression was impassive; he acknowledged Robert’s bow with a cool nod.

Then, suddenly, his face split into a grin. He crossed the room in a few hobbling strides and pulled Robert into an embrace.

Robert was so shocked that it took him a moment to make his arms work. As he wrapped them around Argent, he appreciated for the first time how fragile his grandfather was. His body felt like a bundle of sticks in a fine wool suit.

“I am so proud of you, Robert,” Argent said, voice rough with emotion.

For the second time today, Robert found himself holding back tears. The embrace ended with Robert and Argent clapping each other on the back, both clearing their throats and blinking rapidly.

“Dinner will be served shortly,” said Argent, recovering his composure. “I ordered Cook to prepare all of your favorite dishes—including, I am sorry to say, scotch egg in black pudding.”

Robert grinned.

“It’s an acquired taste, my lord.”

“Yes, one I pray that I never acquire,” said Argent. He gestured to a waiting servant. “But first: a toast.”

The servant stepped forward with a magnum bottle of champagne, which he presented to Argent with a flourish.

“A Cuvée de Prestige from the cellars at Épurnois,” said Argent. “Will you do the honors, Robert?”

Robert uncorked the bottle with a firecracker pop. Champagne frothed over his hand. He filled the double-sized flutes presented by the servant before handing off the bottle.

“To my grandson,” said Argent, clinking Robert’s glass. “At last, an heir worthy of the Argent name.”

Robert took a larger sip than he intended. The bubbles fizzed in his nose and throat; he had to swallow a sneeze. The champagne was sweet, rich, and surprisingly alcoholic. Robert was already riding a buzz, and he could feel the drink taking him over the edge.

Argent seemed to be experiencing the same effect. There were high points of color on his cheeks. He was looking at Robert with something wrenchingly like affection.

“I had meant to give you this after dinner, but I find I cannot wait,” said Argent.

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out a black leather box. Robert opened it to reveal—

—a signet ring. Heavy silver, engraved with the Argent crest in exquisite detail. The raven’s eye was set with a minute glittering diamond.

“I had it made for your father, but he never gave me occasion to bestow it,” said Argent. “Now it’s yours.”

Robert slipped the ring on with a trembling hand.

“My lord—”

Argent held up a hand. “Please, Robert. You may address me as Grandfather.”

“Grandfather.”

It felt strangely natural to call him that. Robert realized that he’d been thinking of Argent as Grandfather for years without realizing.

“Grandfather, I can never thank you enough for all you’ve done. I owe you everything. Everything I have, I owe to you.”

Argent patted him on the arm.

“You’re a good boy. Rash, perhaps, and quarrelsome, and frequently ill-mannered, but…” He smiled. “I see much of myself in you.”

Robert took another long sip of champagne, hoping that Argent didn’t notice the redness around his eyes.

“Tomorrow is the King’s Centennial celebration,” Argent went on, signaling the servant to refill their glasses. “I will present you at Highcourt as my heir.”

The Centennial. Of course; Robert had almost forgotten. It was the hundred-year anniversary of the signing of the Treaty of Roane, and every lord in Lyonesse would be at Highcourt to celebrate. Consumed as he’d been with studying, Robert had registered only distantly the chaos of preparation that had seized the world outside of campus. Passing the wharf on the way to the patisserie, he’d seen beasts and gladiators being unloaded from ships.

Now that he thought about it, most of the gladiators had been barbarians.

The memory of those doomed men weighted down in chains brought Robert’s mind back to Luca. Grandfather had hugged Robert, given him the signet ring, and downed at least a glass and a half of champagne. Now was the time to ask.

Robert took a deep breath. He’d practiced the request in front of his mirror for weeks. It should be the easiest thing he did today, but it was also the most important. Fields of hell, this was probably the most important thing he would _ever_ do. He couldn’t afford to fuck it up.

“Grandfather, you’ve done so much for me. I—well, I hesitate to ask for more, but—”

“There’s something you’ve had your eye on,” said Argent. “Of course; I’d hoped there would be.”

“Really?” said Robert, hope surging in his chest.

“Despite all the odds, you have proven yourself a worthier heir than your father. For that, you deserve a reward. Name it.”

“There’s a boy,” said Robert, the words spilling out of him. “At the Harlequin, in Paradiso. They call him the Golden Bird. He’s—”

Robert saw Argent’s expression and cut himself off. _Don’t get carried away_.

“Grandfather, I would have the boy as my reward.”

“A pleasure slave.” On Argent’s tongue, the words sounded like profanity. “I must admit, Robert, I’m…surprised. Surely you understand that, having named you my heir, the next step will be to find you a suitable wife?”

Robert nearly dropped his glass.

“A _wife?_ But—my lord, you know that I don’t like women.”

Argent frowned.

“What does liking women have to do with getting married?”

“I’ll own to some inexperience on the subject, but I was under the impression that marriage to a woman involves—well, it involves an act of congress to which I’m constitutionally disinclined.”

“That act need only be performed as often as is necessary to produce an heir of your own,” said Argent, waving his hand. “A son to whom you can someday pass that ring.”

The worst part was that Argent seemed to think he was being reassuring. He was talking about breeding Robert like a stud horse and he couldn’t imagine any reason why Robert might object.

Gods, being forced to couple with some poor woman over and over again until she conceived…Robert had awoken screaming from more pleasant nightmares. And what if she had a _girl? _He imagined Argent shaking his head, sighing with disappointment, and sending them back to the bedroom to try again.

Robert grabbed the champagne bottle from the servant and refilled his glass to the brim. Had the room gone hazy around the edges, or was that just horror looming on all sides?

“You mustn’t think me unsympathetic, Robert,” said Argent, patting his arm. “It’s perfectly normal for a man of your age to prefer the company of his own sex. And, naturally, once the future of the Argent line is secure, you will be free to disport yourself with whomever you like. You may even acquire a pleasure slave, as long as you never bring the wretched thing to Lightcliffe. But until that time, I expect you to put your full energy behind securing a suitable fiancée.”

Robert pressed the glass to his pounding head.

“When you first met me, you asked if I ever thought of women, and I told you no. That answer hasn’t changed.”

“Whether or not you think of women is immaterial,” said Argent, voice edged with impatience. “Indeed, a lack of attraction is to your advantage. The charms of inappropriate women have resulted in disastrous matches. Just look at my cousin Mountbatten. His wife’s grandfather was a _sailor._”

Robert frowned.

“Wasn’t he Admiral of the Royal Navy?”

“It amounts to the same thing,” said Argent, waving his hand.

“Grandfather, I’m sorry to disappoint you, truly I am, but I simply cannot marry. My nature prohibits it. Besides, I’m—well, I’m in love.”

The temperature of the room immediately cooled several degrees.

“In love,” Argent said quietly. “With your boy in Paradiso?”

“Yes. His name is—”

“I do not care to know what his name is.”

Robert could feel himself rapidly losing ground.

“My lord, please,” he said, “the way I feel for Luca, it’s what you felt for my grandmother—”

The slap connected with shocking force. Robert wouldn’t have thought that Argent’s withered arm could knock him sideways. He staggered back, the last of his champagne spilling over his wrist.

“The only reason you are not presently moldering in a pauper’s grave is because I saw fit to pluck you from the gutter,” Argent hissed. “Never forget that.”

“How can I, when you’ve ensured that I’m reminded of it every fucking minute of my life?”

Robert didn’t realize that he was shouting until the room fell silent. He felt a hot buzzing sensation on the back of his neck. _I am very drunk, _he thought.

“Tolliver will see you to your rooms,” said Argent coldly.

Robert slammed his empty glass down on the desk.

“This isn’t over.”

He strode to the door, so lost in rage that he almost didn’t hear Argent’s reply.

“No, it isn’t.”

Luca folded his body in half, palms on the floor under his head. The bend stretched his muscles deliciously. He held the position until his thighs began to shake. Then, in one fluid movement, he kicked his legs up, over, and into a roll that brought him back up to standing.

He’d already moved into the next phrase of the dance when Sark appeared in the doorway. Luca stumbled to a halt.

“This is my practice hour, sir,” he said. “Please, I’m dancing for a party tonight. I need to prepare. You can ask Bagoas.”

“I’m not here for that.” Then, bitterly, he said, “Anyway, you’ve found another source for your books, haven’t you?”

Luca’s breath caught. Of course Sark had noticed when Luca stopped knocking on his door. Luca should’ve kept up the show of needing books, even if it did mean having those nicotine-stained hands on his body.

Sark made a disgusted noise.

“You really are a whore. Gods know why I do you any favors.”

Luca didn’t have time to wonder what that meant before Sark crooked a finger, beckoning for him to follow. Luca only hesitated for a second before hurrying after.

Sark didn’t bring Luca to his room. Instead he led him through the dormitory and up the stairs to Master Boq’s floor. The walls in the old part of the building were thin; Luca could usually hear the buzz of activity from downstairs during evening service, but tonight the house was strangely subdued.

Luca felt a twist of unease. Was that a bad sign? He knew that Robert would be getting his results today. But no, the traffic in a whorehouse was no augur for how well or poorly quals had gone.

Besides, Robert was a genius. He had nothing to worry about.

Luca, on the other hand…

If Master Boq had sent Sark to interrupt Luca’s practice hour, then he must have been summoned for punishment. But what had he done wrong? Had Lord Fulke finally decided to complain? Or perhaps Luca had displeased another client. Been lazy when he should’ve taken initiative, or forward when he should’ve been yielding, or slutty when the man wanted a wide-eyed innocent. Master Boq couldn’t have Luca whipped, at least, not with the protection fee in place, but there were plenty of ways a slave could be punished without leaving a mark…

By the time they reached Master Boq’s office, Luca was clammy with dread. His hands flew up to yank at his hair, an anxious habit he couldn’t seem to break—only he’d forgotten he’d pinned it up for practice.

Pinned it up with Robert’s hairpin.

Luca went cold. There wasn’t time to hide the hairpin. Master Boq would see for sure, and then he’d order Luca to hand it over. _Far too valuable for a slave to wear._

No. _No._ Master Boq was not going to take the hairpin. It belonged to Robert. If Master Boq tried to take it from him, Luca would—he didn’t know what he would do. He would lie, maybe, tell Master Boq that Robert wanted to see him wearing the hairpin at their next appointment. But there was nothing to keep Master Boq from confiscating it until then.

Luca imagined his master touching Robert’s gift the way he touched Luca’s body. Pawing at it with his greedy, careless hands.

_No_. Luca wouldn’t let him. The hairpin was precious. And even if Luca wasn’t, Robert loved him. That meant he was worth something now. Master Boq couldn’t take that away, at least.

“You ready?” said Sark, breaking Luca’s reverie.

Luca took a deep breath and nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

Sark didn’t bother knocking. He simply shouldered the door open and pulled Luca inside.

And then Luca couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

Because the Pig and the Beast were in Master Boq’s office. The Beast stood against the wall, the clothes of a high-ranked slave so incongruous with his thick iron collar. Seeing Luca, he grinned, thrusting his hips in a parody of sex. There were bloody furrows on his cheek, as though someone had raked him with their nails.

The Pig ignored them. He was talking to Master Boq, talking and talking, but fear undid the words into noises that Luca couldn’t understand. Was he talking about Luca, maybe, about whatever he’d done to deserve this punishment?

Oh, Lady. What if Luca had finally done something so stupid that Master Boq agreed to sell him? What if the Pig was here to take him away?

Luca was trembling with such violence that it felt like he was about to fly apart._ Mustn’t fall to pieces on the master’s clean floor_, he thought, and had to swallow a bubble of mad laughter.

Seeing Luca frozen in his tracks like a rabbit, Sark made a noise of irritation. He dragged him in front of Master Boq’s desk and shoved him to his knees.

“I didn’t tell you to fetch the boy, overseer,” said Master Boq, sounding annoyed.

Sark shrugged, pulling Luca up by his elbow.

“Thought he’d want to know.”

_Know what? _Luca wondered.

Then a movement on the other side of the room caught his eye. Bagoas, leaning over a body crumpled on the floor.

Everything faded. The Pig was talking again, but Luca couldn’t hear anything past the blood rushing in his ears. Crossing the room was like moving through water. Bagoas made a halfhearted attempt to block his way. Then, seeing something in Luca’s face, he made a helpless gesture and stepped aside.

Asher was sprawled on the floor where someone—the Beast, probably—had dropped him. His eyes were closed. The right side of his face had been battered in, cheek broken so badly that Luca could see the white of bone. The pulp of his ear was still bleeding sluggishly, thick dark liquid trickling down his neck. His arm was twisted at an angle that made Luca’s stomach hurt. There was blood under his fingernails.

_Not his blood_, Luca thought, remembering the scratches on the Beast’s face.

But the blood between his legs, that was Asher’s. The Beast was an expert at using his cock as a weapon. They’d made him bleed and bleed.

And he’d fought. Of course he had. Asher always fought. He was braver than Luca would ever be.

Luca knelt at Asher’s side. His breath was labored, halting. A death-rattle. His lips were already turning blue.

Luca took Asher’s hand in his. It was so small. So cold.

“I told you not to get attached,” Bagoas murmured.

He didn’t sound angry, only tired. Bagoas was always tired. Luca wondered if one day he would put his head down on his ledger and never wake up.

The Pig was still talking in his quicksilver voice. Luca caught the word _compensation. _He heard the Pig say, “I am more than willing to pay full price for the boy, ruined as he is, on the condition that my slave and I be permitted to finish him on the premises. I will of course arrange for disposal once we’ve concluded our business”

Luca stood up. He didn’t remember taking out the hairpin, but the tines were digging into his palm.

Sharp. Like teeth.

When Luca turned, the Pig and Master Boq were engrossed in negotiation. “No need to involve the Watch, of course_,_” the Pig was saying, and Master Boq nodded, the wattle under his neck quivering. Bagoas had pulled Sark into the hallway; Luca heard his own name being hissed back and forth between them.

Only the Beast was looking at Luca. His hand snaked down to his crotch. He licked his lips and mouthed the words _you’re next_.

Luca put one foot in front of the other. Remotely, he appreciated that this was something Asher would never do again.

The Beast was watching him with idle curiosity. The way he might observe an insect skittering across the floor.

The memory came to Luca of Robert felling the Beast with a single blow. Luca had never thanked Robert for that. For showing him that the Beast was mortal. For all the bluster, he was just a man in the end. And all men could die. Luca knew that better than anyone.

He raised his arm. The golden edge of the hairpin caught the light. Master Boq shouted a warning, strangely muffled. But Luca had always been faster than the Beast.

The hairpin went into the Beast’s eye with surprisingly little resistance. Such an easy thing. As though the Beast really had only ever been a nightmare. No more substance than whatever fear was made of.

The Beast reared back. His mouth was open. All Luca heard was a buzzing sound, like the flies on his father’s corpse.

Then the Beast brought his fist up. Luca had time to think of Robert before the world fell away.

When Luca woke, he was blind. Eyes open or closed, he could see nothing. He thought of the Beast clutching at his ruined eye. Was this Luca’s punishment? Had the Lady taken his sight?

But slowly, slowly, he adjusted to the dark. He could just make out the corners of the room. Low ceiling, damp stone floor. He was in one of the cellar chambers, then. And tied—rope, by the feel, cinched tight around his wrists. Experience told him that rope was dangerous. It could cut off circulation, eat into flesh.

Luca rode a surge of panic. He couldn’t dance without his hands. He couldn’t finger himself open or stroke a man’s cock. He would be useless.

Luca forced himself to wiggle his cold fingers, rubbing his palms together as hard as he could. Blood flowed back into his hands, bringing with it the singe and prickle of returned sensation. He bit back a whimper.

Once his hands had stopped tingling, Luca took inventory of the rest of his body. He could pinpoint the ache in his skull where the Beast’s fist had made contact. No teeth were missing; he ran his tongue over the top and bottom rows to make sure. Then he counted backwards from a hundred in every language he knew, in part to reassure himself that he didn’t have a concussion and in part to distract himself from the rising tide of terror that threatened to pull him under.

_Lady, what have I done?_

Luca didn’t have time to dwell on that thought. A line of light appeared under the door. People were approaching—more than one, by the number of footfalls. He heard Master Boq’s voice, with that snivel of deference that indicated he was speaking to someone important. A lord?

Fear warred with hope. Luca managed to push himself up on his elbow and roll onto his knees. He spread his legs as wide as he could. At least his hands were bound behind instead of in front of him; he could still make obeisance properly like this, forehead to the cold floor.

When the door opened, the brightness that spilled into the chamber seared Luca’s eyes. He squeezed them shut, pinwheels burning on the insides of his lids.

“So this is the famous Golden Bird.”

It wasn’t Robert’s voice, or the Pig’s. Luca hadn’t heard this man speak before. He knew at once that he was a noble; he had that plummy, superior Gracegarden drawl.

“Yes, Your Excellency,” said Master Boq. Luca had never heard him sound so cowed.

With a sound like cracking bone, the lord snapped his fingers at Luca.

“Kneel up, slave. I want to see your face.”

Luca obeyed. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground before the man’s shoes. That’s where he would kiss, if the lord indicated it. He didn’t know how to beg yet, or for what, but if the lord gave him permission, Luca would offer him anything he wanted.

Luca felt the cold handle of a cane under his chin, forcing his face up and to either side. The lord hummed thoughtfully.

“Yes, I can certainly see why this one caught my grandson’s eye. He didn’t mention the boy was a barbarian; no doubt that omission was intentional. Does it speak Solasan?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. Quite well.”

Luca was twisting his hands bloodless against the rope, undoing the work of getting his circulation going again. The words _my grandson _echoed over and over again. _My grandson my grandson mygrandsonmygrandsonmy…_

“Look at me, slave.”

It took all of Luca’s will to force himself to raise his eyes. He could only hold the lord’s gaze for a moment. That was enough time to meet eyes like polished silver. To take in sharp cheekbones and a knife-thin nose on a face made even more angular with time. It was like looking at Robert aged fifty years—years spent alone, nursing grievances, growing as cold and brittle as ice.

Luca dropped his gaze, heart hammering in his chest.

“Yes, I think you know who I am,” said Lord Argent softly. Then, to Master Boq, he said, “You may go, whoremonger. My man will fetch you when I require you.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Luca listened to Master Boq’s heavy footsteps fade down the passage. Once he was gone, the cane forced Luca’s head up again.

“Tell me, slave. What exactly was your intention when you ensnared my grandson? You may speak.”

But Luca couldn’t. His throat was so dry and tight that no sound came out.

Lord Argent sighed.

“Alfred?”

A second shadow fell over Luca. In the next moment a hand cracked across his cheek—open-palm, not as hard as the man could make it. A warning strike.

“You’ll speak when His Excellency commands it,” said Alfred, yanking Luca back by the hair.

Distantly, Luca registered the size of him. He was almost as tall as Robert and twice as broad.

Luca swallowed desperately.

“P-please, Your Excellency,” he managed to say, voice so thin that it was barely a whisper. “Please, your slave had n-no intention.”

Lord Argent snorted in disbelief.

“Really. So you didn’t use all the whorish wiles at your no doubt considerable disposal to convince my grandson that he is in love with you?”

It was a question; Luca was required to answer. But he couldn’t—not because his throat didn’t work, but because he didn’t _know_. What if he had used his wiles on Robert? Asher said that barbarians had all kinds of dirty tricks. Luca would never trick Robert on purpose, but what if he’d done it by accident, out of a habit so deeply ingrained that he didn’t even notice? What if he was such a scheming slut that he’d tricked Robert into loving him?

_Makes sense, doesn’t it, hole? A man like him would never choose to love a thing like you._

This time when Alfred slapped him Luca welcomed it. The burst of pain was cleansing. It was what he deserved.

“Really, I don’t know why I bother,” Lord Argent sighed. “These people have less intelligence than livestock.”

The cane tapped the side of Luca’s face, tracing the red mark left by Alfred’s hand.

“Did you know, Alfred, that my legs were ruined at the Battle of Furness Peak? A blue-painted savage riddled my horse with arrows. I went down with it. A miracle I wasn’t crushed completely.”

The handle dug into Luca’s jaw.

“Perhaps that was your grandfather, barbarian.”

Luca didn’t know whether he was expected to speak. To apologize, maybe; that’s usually what men wanted when they railed at Luca about the war. They liked having a barbarian kiss their feet and beg to make it up to them.

But Lord Argent still hadn’t given Luca permission to beg, and there hadn’t been a question, so how could he answer? Any choice he made would be wrong, an excuse to punish him.

Not that Lord Argent needed an excuse. He could split Luca’s skull open and have his body tossed in the char-pit.

_He’d be doing you a favor, hole. So useless you couldn’t even protect Asher…_

“Well, at least we’ve ascertained that the boy is too stupid to have any ulterior motives,” said Lord Argent drily. “And I can hardly see any of my enemies thinking to tilt at Lightcliffe from a whorehouse. No, this was simply folly. Someday Robert will thank me for nipping it in the bud.”

The cane withdrew. Out of the corner of his eye, Luca saw Lord Argent take a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe the handle down.

“Fetch the whoremonger, Alfred,” he said, tossing the handkerchief away. “And inform him that I’ll be taking the boy.”

Dread clenched a steel hand around Luca’s heart. Absurd to hope that Lord Argent was taking him for Robert. No, he didn’t want Luca anywhere near his grandson, that was clear. Was he taking Luca away to punish? To put down like an animal?

Or—_Lady, no_—was he taking Luca for himself?

When Alfred returned with Master Boq, Luca could practically hear the man wringing his hands.

“Your Excellency, much as it pains me, I must tell you that I sold the boy not an hour ago.”

“Oh? To whom?”

“Discretion forbids—” There must have been something in Lord Argent’s face that brought him up short. “C-Councilor Bors.”

Lord Argent gave a bark of laughter so dry it sounded like a snapping branch.

“Ah, Bertram! Now, that _is_ interesting. What a distinguished stable of admirers the whore has. But it would be a shame to let a boy like this fall into the hands of a man like Bertram, knowing what I do of his tastes. How fortunate that I outrank him.”

“Yes, Your Excellency. Only, Your Excellency, for your own safety I must disclose that the boy was sold for cause. He attacked my lord Councilor’s slave, damaging him quite badly—”

“I do not care to hear your lies, whoremonger,” said Lord Argent. “I doubt this underfed child would have the strength to crush a weevil.”

“But Your Excellency—”

“That accent. You’re from Baktria, I take it?”

There was a miserable pause.

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“In that case, I have no doubt that you have paid your taxes faithfully all the years you’ve dwelt in Lyonesse.”

Another pause, this one filled with Master Boq’s quick, shallow breathing.

“Your Excellency—”

“The slave is mine by lord-right,” said Lord Argent. “I could exercise that same right to have your license of operation suspended, your finances investigated, and your visa revoked. I would see to it that your trial dragged on for years while you putrefied in the blackest pit at Bridesea. By the time your order of exile came through, you would be penniless, toothless, worm-blind, and very, very sorry that you crossed me. Do we have an understanding, whoremonger?”

“Yes. Yes, Your Excellency. Of course, the boy is yours. You can have anything you want.”

Luca had only a moment to appreciate that for once it was Master Boq saying those words. Then Alfred was pulling a blindfold over his head and cinching it tight. Luca felt himself being picked up and tossed over a shoulder. He was carried down the passage and up a flight of stairs—up and up before a door swung open and the confines of the Harlequin fell away.

In that instant, it didn’t matter where Luca was going, who was taking him, or for what. He was outside. For the first time in five years, he was _outside._

He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with night air. He could feel the sky, even if he couldn’t see it. There would be stars. Luca remembered stars. And the moon—_the Lady’s eye_, his mother used to call it. Always watching, even on the darkest nights. Even when you couldn’t see her, she was there.

Luca was able to take another breath before he was dropped into a—box? No, the trunk of a carriage, more likely. Hearing the _snick _of a lock, he had to fight down dumb panic. He focused on holding that breath of night air as long as he could, until he could see the stars burning on the inside of his eyelids.

Then the carriage lurched forward, knocking the breath from him. He curled up, trying not to think about a cold hand that had once been so warm and alive in his own.

Luca had a lot of practice at telling time in the dark. It wasn’t more than thirty minutes before the carriage drew to a halt and he was pulled from the carriage. He was carried again—by Alfred, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure—carried for a long time before being set down on unsteady feet. He felt tile, heard the lapping of water. The air was muggy and perfumed. A bathhouse?

Strong hands grabbed his wrists and cut away the bonds. Luca gasped as his circulation returned for the second time that night. He wriggled his fingers but kept his hands folded at the small of his back, ready to assume a more formal position if he was ordered.

“Remove the blind,” a voice ordered. High-pitched, the posh accent just a little too studied. Not a lord, then. A high servant?

The blindfold was pulled away. Luca was left blinking in the rich golden light.

He was in a bathhouse, the most opulent he’d ever seen. Blue marble floors, red pillars, the ceiling so pure a white it was almost blinding. Stone tigers crouched around an azure pool, water trickling from their open mouths. There were slaves arrayed against the walls at intervals, as unmoving and expressionless as the tigers. They were all naked and cut. Attendants, then, not merely servitors. Was this a brothel? No, a rich man’s seray. But whose?

Luca turned to see a eunuch watching him with clinical interest. The man who’d ordered the blind removed. Not a servant, as Luca had guessed, but a high-ranked slave. He must be the Chief Attendant. Despite the silver collar around his neck, Luca knew that the eunuch was master here.

Luca went to his knees at once. Legs open, hands palm-up on his knees, shoulders back. He hadn’t needed to assume this position since the last time he was sold, but it had been drilled into him at the training house. His muscles settled into the correct lines by rote.

“Very nice,” said the eunuch. “I see he’s had formal training. That will save me a headache; the last boy they brought me couldn’t even bow without falling on his nose.”

Luca was watching his hands. When the eunuch gave the command to strip and present himself, Luca rose at once, pulling off his waistcloth. He assumed another position that his body remembered perfectly: head up and eyes down, feet shoulder-width apart, fingers laced behind his neck. The eunuch circled him, assessing Luca’s body so dispassionately he seemed almost bored.

“A barbarian, no older than eighteen. Shaved, circumcised. Blond hair past the shoulders. The complexion is fresh, pale, and even, save light scarring on the wrists and back. The unusually artistic brand on the lower back denotes that he was trained for pleasure at a house of that purpose—and a house of the highest caliber, I am relieved to see. The body is fine-boned, narrowly built, and very pleasingly proportioned. The musculature suggests a dancer.”

The eunuch took Luca’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“The face is, of course, exceptionally beautiful. And the eyes—” He quirked a brow. “Why, if I were of a romantic inclination, I might call them violet.”

The eunuch dropped Luca’s chin, chucking to himself.

“Yes, the boy will do very well indeed. At the moment, however, he stinks of brothel.”

He snapped his fingers. Two attendants sprang to life. They brought Luca to the pool and down the shallow steps cut into the side. He slipped into the water, biting back a gasp to find it blood-warm. Lady, he’d never had a hot bath in his life.

The attendants didn’t give him time to luxuriate. They scrubbed him down with coarse cloths that left him feeling as soft and raw as a shelled oyster. Then the cloths were changed out for sponges, brushes, honey-scented soap. The attendants didn’t miss an inch of him, scouring under his nails, behind his ears, between his legs. They were neither rough or gentle, handling Luca’s body with professional detachment.

The eunuch sat cross-legged on a cushion at the pool’s edge. A slave brought a tray of dainties; the eunuch selected a piece of pink fruit.

“Don’t neglect the backs of his knees,” he ordered the attendants. Then, addressing Luca, “What is your name?”

Luca had his answer ready.

“Whatever my master wishes to call me.”

The eunuch nodded, approving; clearly that had been another test.

“And what did your last master wish to call you?”

“Luca, sir.”

“I’m told that you were advertised as the Golden Bird,” said the eunuch, taking a delicate bite of the fruit.

“Yes, sir.”

“It suits. My name is Aquila.” He wiped his fingers on a white cloth proffered by a slave. “How many years have you served for pleasure?”

“Eleven, sir.”

“They started you young. As it should be. Breaking a boy to the bedroom after puberty is a nightmare.”

Using his thumbnail, Aquila sliced the rind from a piece of orange fruit.

“How many masters have you served?”

Luca tried to think back. There was Master Commissioner, then the man he lost Luca to in a card game—but surely he didn’t count, he’d only kept Luca for a night before selling him to the auction house. Then they’d sold him to the training house. Did Master Trainer count? He hadn’t been Luca’s owner on paper, but he’d owned him in every way that mattered. Then there was Master Crawley and Master Jorin and Master Boq—but there was also Robert, who was more Luca’s master than any other man would ever be…

“Water in your ears, boy?” said Aquila coolly.

“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir, there have been so many—so many men, I don’t know exactly.”

“Your experience will be an advantage,” said Aquila, tossing the rind away. “His Majesty makes short work of virgins.”

The words didn’t make sense at first—and then they did, clicking into place with the inescapable finality of the lock on the breaking room door.

“H-his Majesty?” Luca whispered.

Aquila raised an eyebrow.

“Is that a question?”

Luca didn’t have permission to ask questions.

“No, sir.”

“I assumed you were told,” said Aquila with a shrug. “Then again, I don’t imagine Lord Argent thought his gift needed to know to whom it was being gifted. What, did you imagine His Excellency was keeping you for himself?”

The answer to that question must have been clear on Luca’s face. Aquila laughed, not kindly.

“This should teach you not to anticipate. A good lesson for any slave, especially one in your position. No, His Excellency will present you to His Majesty at the Centennial celebration tomorrow. A barbarian catamite will make a most appropriate offering for the occasion.”

Luca had gone loose-limbed with shock, his vision blurring at the edges. The attendants had to drag him out of the bath. He was limp as a doll as they oiled his skin and brushed his hair. A wheel of horrors turned around and around in his mind.

They said the King kept monsters at Highcourt. That he fed them criminals, slaves, courtiers who bored him. There was an arena in the palace where gladiators fought and died for the King’s amusement, so many that the char-pits smoked night and day. Luca had a client once who’d sworn that under Highcourt was a lake of blood where the mess from the arenas drained down. He said that the King would take his pleasure barge out on those waters like any other man might enjoy an afternoon on the quay.

An image came to Luca of bodies floating on a tide of gore. He saw his mother with her throat crushed; his father, the flesh rotting from his face. He saw Asher, still somehow alive, fighting to keep his head above the sucking black surface. And he saw himself, already sinking under.

Luca didn’t realize how close he was to passing out until Aquila shook him.

“Breathe, boy.”

Luca’s body obeyed automatically, dragging oxygen into his lungs. He saw the bright edge of hysteria shimmering behind his eyes.

“Trying to asphyxiate yourself? A novel approach.” Aquila pinched Luca’s nipple, digging a sharp nail into the skin. “You know better than to let so much show. With your training, I expect more self-control.”

The pain was another test. Luca schooled his expression to perfect blankness as Aquila twisted the bud of flesh between his fingers. Master Trainer had done much worse when he was teaching Luca to control his reactions; it wasn’t difficult to keep his face empty and endure.

“Better.” Aquila squeezed his nipple once before releasing it. “You mustn’t blame the Grand Chancellor. With your looks, you would have ended up in His Majesty’s seray sooner or later. Indeed, I’m surprised it wasn’t sooner. Your last master was a fool not to present you himself; he might’ve earned favor. Though I suppose he had his reasons for keeping you hidden away in Paradiso.”

Luca thought of Master Boq’s silk robes, his music box, the precious stones glittering on his fingers. After he’d bought Luca from the fuckhouse, Luca was so grateful, so desperate to show that he was a good investment, that he’d never wondered how much Master Boq had paid for him. He’d never wondered how many times over his master had made that money back. Master Boq had dangled the threat of the fuckhouse over Luca’s head for years, and Luca had never questioned him.

But he was lying. Luca knew that now. If he was too valuable to sell to Robert, then he was far, far too valuable to send back to Master Jorin. Luca had been so afraid for so long, and only now did he finally had reason to be.

The threat was never Docktown. It was Highcourt.

“I don’t believe in coddling boys, so I will be candid,” said Aquila. “His Majesty is a connoisseur of beauty, but he is not gentle. His attentions will be intense, exacting, and, if you do not perform to standard, short-lived. You will try your utmost to please him, and you will, in all likelihood, fail.”

Luca tried to swallow around the constriction in his throat.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered. “And—and if I should fail—”

Aquila’s mouth curved up at the corners. It was nothing like a smile.

“I said that the King is a connoisseur of beauty. He is also a connoisseur of death. Yours would give him as much pleasure as your body. More, perhaps.”

He stroked Luca’s cheek with mocking gentleness.

“Remember that when you dance tomorrow, little barbarian. Let fear inspire greatness.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a graphic description of gang rape.

Robert was awoken by a shaft of light so piercing it threatened to split his pounding head in half. He threw himself face-down in his pillow, groaning.

“Good morning, my lord,” said Tolliver, abominably cheerful. “Or should I say good afternoon?”

So it was Tolliver who’d thrown open the curtains. Robert added it to the ever-growing list of his crimes.

“I’m _my lord _now, am I?” said Robert, pushing himself up on an elbow. “You’d think that sort of promotion would come with a license to sleep in.”

“If it hadn’t, I would have insisted you rise for breakfast,” said Tolliver, yanking back the bedsheets. “Which was five hours ago, by the way.”

Robert snatched uselessly for the sheets, but hangover was a hobble on his reflexes.

“I had a dream that a little goblin landed on the footboard and chittered at me. That was you, I take it?”

Tolliver drew himself up like a wet cat.

“Never in my life have I been accused of chittering.”

“First time for everything,” said Robert, rolling onto his feet. The room tilted around him before righting itself. “Right. I need coffee, bath, and a carriage, in roughly that order. I’ve an appointment I can’t miss.”

“Of course, my lord. Your grandfather is already at Highcourt; he left instructions that you are to meet him as soon as you’re upright and presentable.”

“I’m not going to Highcourt,” said Robert, fumbling under the bed for his boots. “I’m going to Paradiso.”

Tolliver blanched.

“No, my lord, I am afraid your business in the pleasure district must wait. Your grandfather left strict instructions—”

“Hang my grandfather. He hasn’t had a genuine emotion in fifty years. Did you throw away my boots?”

Tolliver grabbed Robert’s arm and attempted to shake him. Given that he was about a third of Robert’s size, the effort was more for effect than anything.

“Do you have any idea the sort of thin ice you are on? Your elevation has yet to be announced, which means your grandfather can revoke it any time he chooses. Do _not_ give him a reason.”

Robert flicked Tolliver’s hand away.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Tolliver straightened his waistcoat with a prim little tug. Then, coolly, he said, “I must confess to some ignorance regarding the precise mechanics of exchange in Paradiso, but it is my understanding that the company doesn’t come free.”

“Your point?”

“Should you fail to present yourself at Highcourt, Lord Argent will cut off your allowance, take that ring from your finger, and banish you from Lightcliffe,” said Tolliver. “I somehow doubt that Robbie Blackpot has the means to court a pleasure slave.”

Damn Argent to hell and Tolliver with him. Robert wanted very badly to kick something.

“I made a promise,” he said, hating how much like a child he sounded.

“Disobey your grandfather and you will never get to keep it.”

Robert rubbed his hands over his face. Tolliver was right. If he could worm his way back into Argent’s good graces, he might be able to find some weak point in the old man’s iron heart. But if he thwarted Argent now, he forfeit Luca forever. It was that simple.

“Fine,” said Robert. “But I don’t know how you expect me to get to Highcourt without any shoes.”

There had been a Highcourt even before there was a Lyonesse. The city grew around it, people spilling in from every corner of the Continent, farms giving way to temples and markets, fishermen yielding to shipwrights, dirt roads covered with cobblestones, the landscape changing as green transmuted into every color imaginable.

And at the heart of it all was Highcourt, high up on the ridge overlooking Peer’s Quay. The old part of the King’s seat had been built into the rock; newer sections of the palace rose from that ancient stone like filigree growing out of steel. The palace wrapped around the Royal Park, a piece of country inside the city.

That was where the carriage deposited Robert, on the edge of the green. The gardens had been festooned with ribbons and bunting for the occasion; slaves were posed as statues on pedestals along paths strewn with gilded petals. Robert joined the line of merrymakers wending their way to the center of the Park, where the King’s arena lay.

A hand fell on his shoulder.

“We didn’t think we’d see you here, Robert.”

Robert turned to see Francis and Piers, both outfitted in a pirate’s ransom of silk and velvet. Their suits had clearly been designed to complement each other; both wore the black, white, and red of Solas, each with their signet seal picked out in beadwork on their jacket-backs.

“I aim to confound expectations,” said Robert as Francis and Piers fell into step beside him.

“Well, we certainly never would have expected that you’d take Highest Honors,” said Piers. “No offense, Robert, but you’ve always seemed more interested in your sword than your books.”

“I was highly incentivized.”

“And no wonder,” said Francis, eyeing the ring on Robert’s right hand. “I see that Lord Argent has acknowledged you at last. Congratulations, cousin.”

For all his blandness, there was bite behind those words. Francis had never openly called Robert _cousin_ before; now it had the mocking ring of a punchline.

“Thank you,” said Robert, meeting Francis’s tight smile with one of his own. “I hope to do my grandfather proud.”

“Rumor has it that Lord Argent plans to steal the day with his Centennial gift,” said Piers. “Care to give us a hint?”

Robert tried to keep the surprise from his face. This was the first he’d heard of any Centennial gift.

Then again, Argent had always been a competitive old goat. There was no way he would miss an opportunity to one-up the other lords.

“What sort of an heir would I be if I couldn’t keep my lord’s secrets?” said Robert.

His tone was light, but he was watching Francis’s face. At the word _heir _his eye twitched, mouth twisting as if there was something rotten on his tongue. He and Piers exchanged looks so seething with contempt that it was an exercise of will to keep from recoiling.

In that moment, Robert realized what some part of him had always known. Of course. No one expected that Argent would ever acknowledge the ridiculous, embarrassing bastard of his ridiculous, embarrassing son. Argent was famous for his snobbery, his exacting standards, his obsession with rank and lineage and tradition. From the day Tolliver took him from Docktown, Robert had been set up to fail.

And that was the reason—the only reason—Francis had ever tolerated him. Easy enough to be magnanimous when his misbegot cousin wasn’t a real threat. When he could parade him around High Parlor like a mongrel on a chain.

_You should hear what they call you behind your back, those lordlings you think are your friends…_

Fields of hell, Robert had been a been a fool. Hugo was right about the lords. Oh, they’d let Argent elevate Robert—they couldn’t stop him, after all—but they would never accept him as one of their own. He would always be Argent’s folly, Argent’s joke. He didn’t belong at Highcourt any more than he’d ever belonged anywhere else.

Robert didn’t notice they’d come to the end of the path. Then Francis gasped, Piers swore softly under his breath, and Robert was brought up short as the garden fell away beneath them.

They stood on the lip of the King’s arena. The structure was cut into the earth like a great conch shell embedded in the cliffside. Below, hundreds of lords arrayed in their festival finest cheered as a barbarian gladiator swung his mace at a charging bear. The flange hit with a thud and the rending of flesh, muffled by fur. The bear veered off, bellowing, a flap of hide torn loose.

The gladiator turned, readying his mace for another strike. Even at this distance, Robert could see the exhaustion in his face. His cheeks were scarred—no, branded.

“Are those letters?” said Robert, squinting.

“R for Runaway, M for Mutineer,” Francis explained, steering Robert towards an open seat. “He’s been a very naughty barbarian indeed.”

When the bear made its next pass, the gladiator was ready. The flange struck between its eyes. Robert could hear the bear’s skull crack. It staggered away, its small eyes blinking with a curiously human expression of surprise.

“The stupid thing doesn’t know it’s dead,” says Piers, signaling a servant for ale.

Even so, the bear was dangerous. Robert wanted to scream at the gladiator to _move_. But the man’s strength was spent; he couldn’t get away fast enough. The bear’s claw caught his belly, slicing him open as easily as a knife through paper.

The gladiator fell to his knees, expression a sick echo of the bear’s surprise. He tried to hold the wound closed with both hands, but it was too deep. Robert could see his insides pulsing between his fingers.

The arena erupted into laughter.

“Make that two stupid things who don’t know they’re dead,” said Francis. Then he straightened. “Look, the King.”

For the first time, Robert’s gaze was drawn to the Royal Box at the north end of the arena. Ademar lounged on his throne, outfitted like a god in a white chiton. His crown was garlanded with laurel leaves, setting off the dark red of his curls. When he raised his hand, the signet ring of Solas caught the light.

Clearly this was some sort of signal. Servants rushed onto the sand, bearing fetters and a man-sized target. They hauled the bleeding gladiator to his feet and chained him to the target, limbs spread-eagle. His head rolled back, wound gaping like a mouth.

_Gods, just let him die,_ Robert thought. His fists were clenched, fingernails digging bloody moons into his palms. Fields of hell, but he hated the Games.

In the Royal Box, a man stepped forward with a crossbow in his hands. Robert would’ve expected the weapon to be as flamboyantly ornamented as everything else at Highcourt, but this crossbow had been designed with utility in mind. The man who held it could have been Ademar’s brother. They had the same red hair and pale green eyes.

“Rafe Carlyle, His Majesty’s favorite cousin,” said Francis. Then, sourly, “You do all look alike, don’t you?”

“Roland’s blood runs strong,” said Piers, eyeing Robert.

Robert shifted uneasily. They didn’t look _that _alike, did they?

Rafe Carlyle bowed to Ademar, presenting the crossbow with a flourish. He said something and Ademar laughed, chalcedony eyes gleaming with amusement. He took the crossbow, testing its weight in his hands. The bolt was already notched and cocked; Ademar raised the stock to his shoulder and sighted the gladiator. He had a hunter’s stillness. Robert saw him inhale, then release the breath as his finger squeezed the trigger.

The shot was true, striking the gladiator’s heart. His head fell forward, mouth opening to release a stream of blood. The lords rose as one and burst into thunderous applause. Robert forced himself to his feet, bringing his hands together mechanically.

It was then that Robert saw Lord Argent. He was in the Royal Box, clapping with unfeigned enthusiasm. He turned to say something to the man beside him. Councilor Bors, wearing a porcelain half-mask to conceal the worst of his ruined face. His mouth twisted in a smile.

Robert felt a rush of loathing so acute he had to fight the urge to reach for his nonexistent knife. He understood now why Argent forbade him from carrying one; he must’ve foreseen that Highcourt would test Robert too regularly to trust his fragile self-control.

Robert proved that in the next moment, when a light touch to his elbow caused him to react without thinking. He put the man in a wristlock, forcing him to his knees.

The King’s Steward looked up at him, watering eyes wide with pain and shock. Robert released him immediately, pulling him to his feet with too much force. Under the padded robes and doublet of office, the man weighed as much as a plucked chicken.

“Gods, I’m sorry,” Robert said, straightening the Steward’s little hat. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, my lord,” said the Steward faintly.

“Father of Hosts, Robert, what did the poor man ever do to you?” said Piers. “You’d think this was a mercenary tavern.”

“What an interesting accent you had just now, cousin,” said Francis quietly, his eyes narrowed with interest.

Robert could already tell that he was going to hate Francis calling him cousin. He grit his teeth and turned to the Steward.

“Did you want me for something?”

The man obviously didn’t want Robert anywhere near him. He made a little bow, backing away.

“His Imperial Majesty invites my lord to join him in the Royal Box.”

Robert didn’t have to look to know that Francis and Piers had gone rigid with jealousy. Their resentment gave him a bitter thrill, even if the Royal Box was the last place he wanted to be.

Not that Robert had a choice. An invitation from the King wasn’t a request; it was a command.

Robert followed the Steward along the edge of the arena and down a cordoned-off stairway. To get to the Royal Box they had to pass rows of guardsmen, stone-faced in their black and red. Robert had a sudden thrill of fear that the Steward would tell them what Robert had done. They would know him at once for an imposter.

But the Steward said nothing. He bowed Robert up the steps to the dais as he would any other lord.

Argent met Robert at the top of the steps. He was outfitted in his usual undertaker’s black, chain of office hanging heavily from his neck. His cane was red mahogany, the handle ivory. A much subtler show of patriotism than Piers’ and Francis’s ostentatious display.

“Tolliver dressed you well,” said Argent, looking Robert up and down with approval. “Russet brings out your eyes.”

Robert forced himself to smile. He hadn’t forgotten where they’d left things, but Tolliver was right; better to stay on Argent’s good side long enough for his elevation to be announced. Robert would have some leverage then, at least.

“He did let me make some decisions,” said Robert. “Though my boots seem to have mysteriously disappeared.”

“I would not hold out hope for their return.” He adjusted Robert’s cravat. “His Majesty is aware that I will be presenting you as my grandson. Try to be elegant when you go to your knee; few things annoy the King more than a graceless man. And you’d better not roll your eyes at _him_ like that, or he’ll have you exiled to the edge of the world.”

Robert closed his hand over Argent’s. His bonelike fingers were trembling, whether from nerves or palsy Robert didn’t know.

“I’ll be fine, Grandfather. You’ve presented me at Highcourt before.”

“As my ward, not as my heir.” Argent wet his thumb and scrubbed the corner of Robert’s mouth. “Thank the gods you have Roland’s looks. No one can deny that you’re of royal stock, at least.”

_Whatever else they might say about me_, Robert thought. Piers and Francis’s contempt was only a foretaste. He’d be swallowing barbs for the rest of his life.

Argent took Robert’s elbow and steered him into the Box. He’d timed Robert’s entrance well; the bodies were being cleared from the arena and fresh sand lain down. Ademar was talking to Bors and a man Robert recognized with a twist of unease as Adrian’s father.

As they approached, Ademar looked up. Robert always expected him to be older, but he was only twenty-six, with the delicate, heavy-lidded loveliness that Robert might have found desperately attractive in another man. That was one of the things Adrian used to tease Robert about, the King being so very much his type. That and the fact that Robert was supposedly the mirror-image of Roland in all the paintings. _If you fucked Ademar, it would be like fucking yourself, only prettier, _Adrian said once, and Robert had shoved him out of bed as punishment.

Robert knelt before the King, taking care to keep his posture straight. Argent’s descent to his knee was far less steady; his twisted legs gave way, delivering him to the ground with a thump. Robert heard him bite back a gasp of pain. Through his lashes, Robert saw Ademar smirk.

“Your Majesty, may I present my grandson, Lord Robert Argent III?” said Argent, struggling to regain his composure.

“Certainly you _may_, Argent, though your fumbling makes me doubt whether you _can_,” said Ademar, giving the sign for them to rise. “Does your grandson’s promotion have anything to do with your ever-increasing infirmity?”

A muscle twitched in Argent’s jaw.

“No, Your Majesty.”

“I was informed that young Robert took Highest Honors in his qualifying exams this year,” said Bors smoothly. “He was one of only eight students to do so. Quite a feat, Your Majesty. The Argent genius lives on.”

“What a pity it skipped a generation,” Ademar yawned. “Argent, Courtney here was just pointing out the flaws in your plan to redistribute the tax burden in the Midlands. He agrees with Bors that the Council cannot risk losing the support of the provincial lords.”

“Your Majesty, as much as I respect my colleagues, they have coddled the country peerage for too long,” said Argent. “The landed gentry bear the brunt of the tax, and if they can’t meet it, then lords like Ambrose and Osbourne swoop in to buy up their land. And yet it is these same lords who benefit from the fine work of Your Majesty’s army in keeping back the rebels from Guye. Were it not for the Royal Regiment, the Midlands would be overrun and the peerage hanged. Is it not fair to ask that the provincial lords do their part to keep their protectors fed and equipped?”

Ademar tapped a finger against the stem of his goblet. For some reason, his expression of bland disinterest made Robert think of a snake before it struck.

“A compelling argument. Bors, your rebuttal?”

“Your Majesty, Argent has a blind spot the size of the Midlands,” said Bors. “The entire Council knows it. His bias towards Lyonesse is never more apparent than when he bangs the drum of tax. Argent is a Council Lord, exempt from taxation himself, yet he proposes we empty the pockets of our country peers—”

“I tithe yearly to the Royal Treasury, Bors, as you well know.”

“A fraction of your fortune,” said Bors, rolling his eyes.

“A generous fraction, it must be admitted,” Lord Courtney murmured. Playing both sides, just like his son. Adrian must’ve learned his weasel ways at his father’s knee.

“The lords must stand united,” Bors went on. “We cannot risk any appearance of dissent within our ranks, not with that misbirth Kenever—”

“How dare you utter that name in my presence,” said Ademar.

His tone was so bored that he might have been remarking upon the weather. Still, Robert felt the frisson of danger in the air. The parts of Bors’s face that he could see went pale.

“Your Majesty, forgive me—”

Without looking at him, Ademar gave the sign for Bors to withdraw. Then he turned to Robert, gaze pinning him like a bug on a board.

“What do you think, Robert the younger?”

Robert licked his lips. When he spoke, his voice only shook a little.

“Your Majesty, I agree with my grandfather. The lords who forfeit their ancestral lands to the Crown sit in Council; the lords who retain their stakes enjoy the comforts of rule in their fiefdoms. Lord Ambrose won’t go bankrupt if forced to sacrifice a little of his yearly yield to the Treasury. Anyway, wasn’t it your father who said that loyalty isn’t a promise made once, but an obligation to be continually renewed?”

“Well said,” said Ademar, a smile playing over his mouth. “How fortunate that you only inherited your late father’s looks. If Robert II had a single opinion on anything but the latest dancehall revue, he took it to his grave.”

Robert would’ve smelled that bait even if the King hadn’t dangled it right in front of his nose. Thank gods Adrian had given him so much practice keeping his temper. He let his face relax into a mirror image of the King’s own bland smile.

Ademar was watching Robert with a gleam in his eye. Once he realized that Robert wasn’t going to snap, he seemed to lose interest.

“I shall have you sit with Mr. Kemp,” said Ademar, waving his hand. “He’s a bastard, a scholar, _and _a cripple. Familiar company for you, Robert.”

That was their cue to withdraw. Argent and Robert bowed their way from the King’s presence.

“That went better than I could have hoped,” murmured Argent once they were safely out of earshot.

He was gripping Robert’s arm in one hand and leaning heavily on his cane with the other. Landing on his knees had clearly injured him; he was white-faced with pain, and Robert was taking nearly all of his weight.

“Grandfather, you need a physician,” said Robert in undertone. “Let me—”

“_No._” Argent squeezed his arm for emphasis. “I’m perfectly fine. Just my old war injury acting up. The weather, I think; it’s going to rain. Oh, delight, here comes Bors.”

Bors was bearing down on them with the fury and purpose of a hornet. The memory came to Robert of Harrow showing Robbie exactly where to apply pressure on a throat in order to crush it under a hand. _Easy as pie, _he’d said. It hadn’t been easy, not the first time, but it had gotten easier after that. Robert wondered distantly if it would be so easy now.

“Argent, a word?” said Bors between clenched teeth.

“Now, Bors, you can hardly blame me for your little slip of the tongue—”

“That isn’t what I want to speak to you about, _as you well know_.”

Argent didn’t seem surprised. Before allowing Bors to pull him away, he pointed Robert towards a man in a green robe sitting in the back row.

“Bartimaeus Kemp, the Royal Astronomer,” said Argent. “Don’t mistake his intelligence for ingenuity; he’s as harmless as an old cat.”

Robert wasn’t sure why Argent thought he needed the warning. Kemp was a don in late middle age remarkable only for how utterly unremarkable he was. His one distinguishing feature was the clubfoot encased in a black leather boot.

“Robert Argent, isn’t it?” said Kemp, shaking Robert’s hand. “We met two years ago when your grandfather brought you to Highcourt for the solstice celebration. I didn’t think it was possible for you to grow taller, but you seem to have managed it.”

Robert grinned, folding himself into the seat beside Kemp.

“My aunt used to say that I was such a stubborn child I grew just to spite the sky.”

“Stubborn boys become strongminded men,” said Kemp, looking at him sidelong. “I teach at the University every few semesters, my duties at Highcourt permitting, and the Dean is a dear friend. He keeps me current with the gossip.”

“Oh, dear.”

Kemp laughed.

“Your reputation isn’t as bad as you fear. Impulsive, perhaps, and rather lacking in focus, but I’m told that you’re a young man of extraordinary promise.”

“That’s a generous assessment.”

“Which doesn’t make it inaccurate. But then I suppose a strongminded boy like you has found that keeping expectations low is much to his advantage.”

Robert shifted in his seat. He was revising his opinion of Kemp; the man was uncomfortably sharp.

“What do you teach? Astronomy?”

“As little as I can help it,” said Kemp. “No, my real interest is a rather obscure branch of linguistics called cryptology. Have you heard of it? No? Ah, what a pity. I think you’d find it quite interesting.”

“I’ll take your class,” said Robert, “if my lord lets me stay on at University.”

“You plan to get your degree, then?”

“I had hoped to. But—well.”

“Yes, lord-heirs rarely do. I hope the Grand Chancellor allows you to buck convention. It would be a pity to let a mind like yours go to waste at Highcourt.”

Robert looked at Kemp in surprise. That was very nearly an affront to the King. But Kemp had taken a handkerchief from his robe and was blowing his nose with discomforting thoroughness. No, Argent had been right. Kemp was just an old scholar whose artless sallies sometimes hit a little too close to the mark.

A flurry of trumpets sounded. The arena had been transformed into a battlefield, one Robert recognized immediately from paintings and textbook illustrations as Roane. Gladiators dressed in a stylized version of the Roland-era army uniform marched onto the sand, drumming broadswords against their shields. The crowd roared.

Robert and Kemp winced in unison.

“The entertainment begins,” Kemp sighed.

While Roland’s army was being played by seasoned gladiators—Solasans and a few Thessalonians, by the look of them—the barbarians opposing them were so green they had to be prodded through the gate at spear-point. They stumbled into the arena, greeted by the hoots and jeers of the crowd. Robert had the impression of fearful, slack-jawed faces blinking in confusion. Then Roland’s forces fell on them.

Even if the barbarians had known what they were doing, it would have been a slaughter. They’d been weighted down with shackles and given blunted swords. From the way a few of them staggered, Robert thought they might even have been drugged. Roland’s forces were merciless, attacking with a brutality that would’ve been gratuitous even with an enemy who could fight back.

Robert looked away in disgust to see Kemp watching him.

“Not your cup of tea, I take it?”

“I don’t like fixed fights.”

Kemp nodded at the arena.

“Perhaps it isn’t as fixed as they intended.”

Robert followed his eye. One of the barbarians had somehow gotten his hands on a real sword. He’d slipped the shackles from his wrists—using blood as lubrication, Robert saw—and was wielding the sword against two gladiators.

“He’s good,” Robert murmured, following a deft thrust that brought one of the gladiators to his knees. “Untrained, but his reflexes are—_fuck_, did you see that feint? He’s terrified, but he’s controlling it. Using it.”

With a few cutting strokes, the barbarian dispatched the gladiators. It wasn’t elegant work; his instincts were as good as Robert had ever seen, but he had no idea of his own strength. From the way he moved, Robert had the sense of a gangling boy who’d grown too suddenly into a giant of a man.

“He seems to be on a mission,” Kemp observed.

He was right. The barbarian had his eye on something—no, someone. An older man, holding back a gladiator with his blunted sword. Like the barbarian who’d fought the bear, this one had an R branded into his cheek.

The younger barbarian was moving towards him with grim purpose, hacking at any gladiator who came near him. Robert’s eyes flicked back and forth between them, trying to find some likeness in their faces, but they were too bloody, too filthy, for him to see any resemblance.

The older barbarian had more experience with the sword, but he was struggling with the shackles and clearly drugged. When the gladiator lunged, he couldn’t move fast enough to block. The sword pierced him. He was dead before he hit the sand.

Robert sat frozen, watching the younger barbarian watch it happen. His mouth was open, but whatever sound he made was swallowed by the chaos around him.

As soon as the battle had begun, it was over. The barbarians lay scattered on the sand. All were dead except one, and he was on his knees beside the body of his—father? Lover? Friend? Robert would never know.

The gladiators moved to encircle the surviving barbarian. Seeing them approach, he leapt to his feet. Robert recognized his expression. It was the same one Robbie had worn when he was facing down Crawley. Piss and vinegar, spitting in the face of inevitable defeat.

The King must have made some sign, because the trumpets blared a warning. The gladiators halted in their tracks, then backed away.

_Kneel_, Robert willed the barbarian, _for fuck’s sake, kneel_—and thank any listening god, the barbarian thumped to his knees, making clumsy obeisance before the King.

“What a turn of events,” said Ademar drily. “I haven’t seen a show that amusing in—well, I don’t care to think how long.”

“Rather a deviation from the record,” Rafe Carlyle pointed out. “I seem to remember our great-grandfather’s victory being absolute.”

The barbarian’s eyes flicked back and forth between Ademar and Rafe as they spoke. If he knew Solasan, Robert couldn’t tell. Luca had once told him that sometimes barbarians pretended to understand less than they did. _Vúlfar think we’re all stupid anyway, _he’d said. It wasn’t until later that Robert learned what _vúlfar _meant.

_Wolves_.

Ademar certainly looked like a wolf now, regarding the barbarian with predatory interest.

“You can’t expect a brute like this to concern himself with historical accuracy. No, his talents lie elsewhere. And let it never be said that Ademar does not reward talent.”

Standing, Ademar raising his goblet of wine to the arena. He declared, “The barbarian will live to fight another day!”

The crowd erupted into applause. The barbarian clearly had no idea what was going on. When guards marched into the arena with fetters to take him back to the stable, he made a halfhearted attempt to beat them back. He was hit on the head with the flat of a sword and collapsed to the sand, half-conscious. It took five guards to drag him away.

“I must admit, I enjoyed this version of the Battle of Roane rather better than the original,” said Kemp in undertone.

“So did I,” Robert agreed. Then, without thinking: “No wonder they hate us.”

“Yes, Solas has certainly earned an enemy in the Keld,” said Kemp with a sidewise glance. “Though perhaps that’s an opinion better kept for more sympathetic company.”

Belatedly, Robert realized that openly expressing sympathy for the barbarians at the King’s Centennial could earn him a one-way ticket to the basement at Bridesea. _Idiot_. Thank the gods that Kemp didn’t seem inclined to call for a guard.

“The Dean could tell you that I have my foot more or less permanently lodged in my mouth,” said Robert with forced lightness.

“I’ve always been of the mind that honesty is a virtue, though I should warn you that I’m in the minority at Highcourt,” said Kemp. “Your grandfather seems to be readying himself for a speech, by the way.”

He was right. Argent had hobbled onto the dais before the King. As always, his presence commanded attention. The chatter of conversation died to a murmur.

“One hundred years ago today, my royal uncle brought the barbarian tribes to their knees,” Argent began. “Where once there was savagery and chaos, the Treaty of Roane established peace and order. Though we have had to fight to keep these benighted lands—and how the barbarians have made us fight!—the Royal Army has never faltered, never fallen, never strayed from their duty. In the darkest hours of this century, the King of Solas has been to his subjects like a captain on storm-tossed seas, guiding us through the night with a wise eye and a steady hand…”

As Argent spoke, the gladiators who played Roland’s soldiers entered the arena. They were carrying a golden palanquin wrought in the shape of a cage. The bars were thin filigree. As they set the palanquin down onstage, Robert saw the shadow of someone inside.

“In recognition of this anniversary, I offer Your Majesty a living symbol of the dominion of Solas,” Argent was saying. “May his beauty reward our conquest. And may Ademar rule for a thousand years!”

The cage opened and Luca stepped out.

Afterward, Robert would never know whether he screamed aloud or only in his mind. If he made any sound, it was swallowed by the swell of music from the orchestra pit.

Luca began to dance. Robert recognized the shape of it from friezes in the Temple Plaza. This was how Ganymene greeted Melchior when he returned from war. The dance was sinuous, suggestive. The way a boy danced for his lover, not an arena full of leering strangers.

Luca rolled his hips, rippling his stomach muscles as his fingertips lightly grazed his skin. He was almost naked, barer even than he’d been on stage at Bacchanal. When he moved fluidly into a handstand, legs opening in a split, it was all too clear what was being offered and to whom.

Despite himself, Robert found his gaze drawn inexorably to Ademar. He was leaning forward, wine forgotten. Enraptured. Like Melchior on his golden throne.

And Luca—Luca was in the air, leaping, weightless. He alighted onstage, already moving into the next phrase of the dance. If Robert hadn’t learned to read Luca so well, he would never have seen his fear. 

But Luca was terrified. Every gesture was too precise, each movement sharpened by fear. He was pushing himself to the limit. When he twisted his body in midair, Robert thought that he might fly apart.

“Are you all right?” Kemp murmured.

Robert realized that he was on the edge of hyperventilating. His fingers were gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles were bloodless. He had the sudden wild urge to throw the chair at Ademar. To raise it over Grandfather’s head and bring it down again and again until there was nothing left.

“I have to go,” Robert said—or thought he said; he couldn’t hear himself over the roar in his ears.

He stumbled to his feet and down the steps and out of the Royal Box, where Argent was waiting for him. As though they’d always planned to meet this way.

“Say nothing,” said Argent, taking his arm.

Robert had a lot to say—to _scream_, to scream and sob and rend from his throat—but he found himself curiously mute. He let Argent guide him from the arena like a child.

They emerged into the King’s parterre. Interlaced hedges stretched to the cliff’s edge. The air was cool here, scented with mild herbs and the wilder tang of the sea. Robert couldn’t tell whether the smell of blood had permeated the arena or if he’d brought it with him.

Ignoring Argent’s look of disapproval, Robert took a cigarette from his case and lit it. The first drag filled his lungs without the usual rush of relief. It was like sucking smoke into a corpse.

“Why?” he asked, voice rough with smoke and swallowed hatred.

Argent rolled his eyes, as though the answer should be obvious.

“Because you thought yourself in love.”

“Do you want to control my feelings along with every other part of my life?”

“A lack of control was your father’s besetting sin,. I will not see two heirs of mine disgrace our line with grotesque liaisons.”

“I was born from one of those liaisons. Do you think me grotesque, Grandfather?”

“You are everything that your father was not!” Argent shouted.

Robert stared at him. Argent gathered himself, smoothing a hand over his silver hair.

“I may be willing to forgive your folly, Robert, but do not mistake forgiveness for tolerance. I was too easy on your father; I turned a blind eye to his behavior, made excuses for him at every turn. But there was a rot at the core of him that only spread the longer I ignored it, until at last it turned gangrenous and consumed him. I will not make the same mistake with you. Taking the boy away may seem cruel, but it is an act of mercy. Of love.”

“Don’t you dare call this love,” said Robert raggedly. “This is perverse. It’s torture.”

“Believe me, Robert, you have no understanding of torture.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Nothing so vulgar. Call it an understanding. You know that my power at Highcourt is second only to His Majesty’s; not even the seray is beyond my reach. Any rash action on your part will result in unending suffering for your whore.”

He might as well have slid a knife between Robert’s ribs. Fear pricked at his heart.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Ah, Robert, you underestimate me. I have long worried that insurrection lurks within the King’s bedroom. Should I pursue the matter, who among his household would be safe from the interrogator’s knife? Certainly not a barbarian pleasure-boy hiding treachery behind his pretty smile.”

Beneath the smug purr of Argent’s voice, Robert could hear the crashing of waves. His gaze traveled along the cliff’s edge. There was no wall, no guard. How easy it would be to fall…

“Spare me the melodrama, Robert," said Argent. "You aren’t going to kill yourself. You know what will happen to your whore if you do. Besides, we both know that His Majesty’s attention span is…shall we say, abbreviated? Rarely does a boy hold his eye for more than a few weeks. When His Majesty tires of the little barbarian, I will see to it that he is sent back to the brothel where I found him. Believe me, it’s a kinder fate than he would have had to look forward to otherwise.”

“Am I to take it that your mercy would be conditional on my good behavior?”

“Whatever you may think, it gives me no joy to have to goad you like a mule,” Argent sighed. “Unfortunately, there seems to be no other way to keep you trotting along the right path.”

_So this is my fault,_ Robert thought. But of course it was. Hadn’t he always known that? He had never been able to protect Luca. He was a fool to think he ever could. Whenever Luca needed him most, Robert always found himself bound. The fetters might be invisible this time, but he was just as trapped as he’d been five years ago. Just as useless.

They’d both come so far just to end up right back where they began.

Luca was afraid. He couldn’t remember ever having been so afraid, not even the first night with Master Commissioner. Being split open had hurt so badly that Luca was sure he would die, but his was a child’s understanding of death. It was like sleep, he thought, like falling asleep in the arms of the Lady. She would carry him away from the filthy bed where the wolf was hurting him, and he would see his parents again.

Now Luca knew better. There was no peace in death. It was like being sold. You escaped from the monster you knew into the arms of the monster you didn’t. And wherever the Lady took him after, it wouldn’t be to his parents. There were other places where things like Luca were disposed of.

Ganymene was never afraid when he performed like this for Melchior. They were in love, like Robert and Luca. That’s what the dance was supposed to celebrate. Luca hated that Aquila had chosen it. This was a mockery of the god.

If Luca had a choice, he would’ve given this dance to Robert. Only to him.

But there were so many men watching. So many _lords_. Luca could feel their eyes on him. It was like being skinned. Like having every paper-thin layer of him burned away until he was raw and exposed. A different sort of nakedness than he was used to. More intimate, somehow, being scoured by their hatred as well as their lust.

And they did hate him. They hated all the Keld. What they’d done to the men of Isar, the ones who’d been hacked apart with blunt swords in their hands—that had been a sacrifice as dark and cruel as any of the old rituals. Worse. When the Lady called for blood, it was an act of love. But what the wolves had done they did for themselves. For pride. _Drekka glywd malórgeuil, _his father would’ve called it. Pride like the mouth that eats without the belly ever growing full.

Maybe Luca would die here, too, sacrificed in this temple of suffering to the god who watched from his throne. Maybe it would be better to die now than to find out what came after.

But then the dance ended and the King made a sign with his hand and the music started all over again. Luca forced his body back into the first phrase of the dance. His feet were heavy; a tremor ran down his spine. Could the King see how Luca’s hands shook? Was he angry that his new toy was already failing to perform to standard?

Again the dance ended and the King signaled for it to begin. Luca’s chest was heaving. He was slick with sweat. When he moved, it was like swimming against a tide. Like being pulled under. Salt in his nose, his eyes. Legs kicking, lungs burning. Dancing so he wouldn’t drown.

Luca didn’t know how many times the King made him dance. By the end of it he could see only a blur of sky and sand. Was he spinning or was the world spinning around him?

The King’s hands slid into focus. He was making a sign—ordering Luca to prostrate himself, oh thank the _Lady_. He’d never been so eager to hit his knees. The wood of the stage was cool under his forehead, his outstretched palms. The position was familiar enough that Luca could hold it for hours if he needed to.

A murmur of astonishment rippled through the crowd. Luca heard footsteps approaching on the sand. Dread twisted his stomach. But no, it couldn’t be a gladiator. This man was coming from the direction of the Royal Box.

The next moment, Luca’s head was dragged up by the hair. He registered gold chains of office gleaming against a white chiton, a crown of green leaves and silver on dark red curls. _Robert, _he thought, and for an instant was as if everything had lifted and he was weightless—

No, not Robert. The King.

Luca didn’t have time to think. The King leaned down and took his mouth in a rough, claiming kiss. He tasted of wine laced with the metal edge of bliss.

As abruptly as the kiss began, it was over. The King stepped back, raising his arms in a posture of victory. The lords surged to their feet, cheering. The King was saying something, but the roar in Luca’s ears drowned out the words.

Then the guards were picking him up and bearing him away. Luca’s last thought before he lost consciousness was that he hoped the monsters would kill him quickly.

He was brought back by the burn of smelling salts. _I passed out without permission, _Luca thought, and cringed reflexively, waiting for Master Crawley’s fist to fall on him.

But no, Master Crawley hadn’t owned him for years. It was Aquila capping the bottle, and he didn’t took angry. He looked pleased, like Luca had finally done something right.

“You danced well,” said Aquila. “His Majesty was exceptionally pleased with you.”

Luca was in the stable where the gladiators waited to be released into the arena. He was sitting on a ledge by the gate. His whole body trembled with exhaustion; a guard had to hold him upright. He could still taste the sting of bliss on his lips.

“Is it over?” he whispered.

“Gods, you people really are brainless,” Aquila snorted. “Of course not. His Majesty will have you in the royal bedchamber tonight. Look pleased, boy. It’s a great honor the King is bestowing upon you.”

“Yes, sir. I am honored, sir, I am.”

As Luca spoke, another chained line of gladiators shuffled to the door, prodded along by the guards. These men were too young or old or injured to fight properly.

Luca saw one with a stump where his arm should be, the bandages crusted over with filth. Flies made idle orbit around his pale, glassy-eyed face. He was a barbarian—from Ost, Luca realized with a jolt of recognition. He’d known this man a lifetime ago. They’d worked side by side as children, untangling nets and scraping down the boats. Their fathers had been friends.

From the arena came the roar of some unseen monster. Its footfalls were like floursacks thumping against the sand. Some of the men gasped and shuddered; others looked resigned. One began to cry.

Only the man from Ost had no response. Luca could feel the infection radiating from him. His fever-bright eyes slid sideways, then fixed, blinking, on Luca.

Luca would have thought the man was too far gone to remember him. But a flicker of recognition appeared there, sharpening in the next moment into something else.

The guard holding Luca up saw the man looking at him and laughed.

“Go ahead and get an eyeful, dogmeat. This is the last pretty thing you’re ever going to see.”

Luca dropped his eyes, face burning. He hadn’t known that he could still feel shame like this. It choked the breath from him.

The gate opened and the guards forced the gladiators through. The crying one collapsed and was dragged by his chains. As the man from Ost passed Luca, he spat at his feet.

“_Ergihŵr_,” he rasped.

One of the guards flicked his lash at the man’s face, opening a fresh welt along his jaw. Then he thumped the haft of the whip between the man’s shoulder blades, forcing him through the archway and into the arena. The gate clattered shut behind him.

Luca heard the monster roar.

The King’s rooms were a palace within the palace. After being washed thoroughly, inside and out, Luca was taken through the warrenlike halls of the servants’ passage. The seray wasn’t far from the royal bedchamber, no doubt by design. The passage opened into the chamber through a discreet side-door. Luca noted the shelf of necessaries on the passage side of the door. Oil, lubricant, and plugs for the boys going in; bandages, ointment, and medical equipment for the boys coming out.

Luca wasn’t going to think about that. He was going to focus on kneeling where Aquila directed him, on the floor at the foot of the vast upholstered bed. He was going to keep his arms perfectly folded, his back perfectly straight, and remain perfectly, perfectly still. He was not going to think about the state his body would be in when it was carried out of this room. He was not going to think about Asher. He was not going to think about how thick these walls were, these walls without windows in a chamber at the heart of a fortress. Luca had seen the last of the sky when he danced in the arena, and he’d been too terrified to appreciate it. Now he was locked away again, like Ganymene in the house of Melchior. He was buried so deeply that Robert would never be able to find him.

If the King left anything of Luca to find.

There were mirrors on the ceiling. That was something else Luca wasn’t going to think about.

Luca didn’t know how long he waited for the King. Time passed strangely here, as slow and thick as syrup. There were guards against the far wall on either side of the door and high-ranked slaves arranged discreetly in the corners. All were as mute and unmoving as the bathhouse attendants. Luca watched from under his lashes as a mosquito landed on a guard’s arm, drank, and flew away. The man didn’t even twitch.

Luca remembered the games Master Trainer liked to play. The Pig, too. They would leave him untied with the order not to move or make a sound, and then they would hurt him until every mote in his body was urging him to thrash, scream, _get away_. Luca was grateful now for the lesson. If the King ordered him to stay still and silent, he could do it. No matter how badly the King hurt him. Luca could turn himself to stone.

It took so long for the King to arrive that Luca began to wonder if he ever would. Then everything happened at once. The doors burst open and a brace of high-ranked servants flew into a frenzy of activity. A little man in a purple suit unlatched a wooden briefcase to reveal an array of scent-bottles, which he deliberated between with a surgeon’s gravity. He sprayed his choices throughout the room, stepping around Luca as though he were a footstool. Luca didn’t miss the look he gave the maids filling the room with flowers and greenery. Clearly he considered their work extraneous at best, an insult at worst.

The room was also fragranced by the plates of dainties brought in by servants. Luca had never seen food like this; he couldn’t even have imagined it. And so _much! _Plates and plates of it, most unrecognizable, more like art than something one could eat. When Robert had shown Luca a strawberry, he’d thought that there couldn’t possibly be anything rarer and more beautiful. But there was a plate was heaped with strawberries, a whole careless pile of them, as if they were as ordinary as bread.

The excess made Luca’s head hurt. In Ost, people would kill each other for a meal like this. Not gladiators, even; just regular people who had never been full, not one day in their lives. For a meal like this, they would tear each other apart.

The sound of footfalls approaching down the hallway sent the servants into a final frantic burst. The sheets were brushed down, the pillows plumped, the lamps adjusted. A dressing-gown was laid out on the bed, and slippers beside it. As though concluding a piece of choreography, the servants withdrew through the side-door, leaving only Luca and the guards.

The King entered, flanked by valets in royal livery. Luca prostrated himself, forehead to the floor. From under his lashes, he watched the passage of feet back and forth across the room as the King’s crown and golden chain of office were taken with great ceremony and the King changed from the chiton into his dressing gown. Luca heard liquid being poured into a glass. More wine, no doubt laced with bliss.

Then the King’s embroidered slippers entered his vision. A slipper-toe nudged Luca’s chin, bringing his head up.

This close, Luca could smell the spicy-bitter tang of the King’s cologne. He could see the outline of his cock through thin silk trousers. There was the _snap_ of a lighter, the _hiss_ of a cigarette catching light. Tendrils of smoke curled down to where Luca waited on his knees to discover what his new master would do to him.

The hand with the cigarette caught his chin, tilting his face up. Luca felt the heat from the ember too close to his cheek. He stayed perfectly still.

“What a pretty little mouth you have, whore,” said the King, rubbing the soft smoky pad of his thumb over Luca’s bottom lip. “How is it at sucking cock? You may speak.”

For an awful moment, Luca couldn’t remember how. His tongue and lips and teeth were like a stranger’s. Then he heard himself answer, and his soft, steady voice was like a stranger’s too.

“Only His Majesty can judge his slave’s skill.”

“Mm.” His thumb slipped into Luca’s mouth. “I suppose I’ll have to test you, then, won’t I?”

The hand withdrew. The King snapped his fingers and the doors were flung open to admit a chained line of gladiators. Eight; Luca counted quickly as they were unchained and lined up against the wall.

One was the barbarian who’d survived the mock battle. He was gazing around the room with his mouth open. Luca saw him clock the food, the _much too much_ of it. His hands twitched at his sides.

Then his eyes fell on Luca and Luca looked away, because he was a coward. _Ergihŵr. _So gutless he let the enemy unman him. So weak he couldn’t even meet the eye of one of his own. Couldn’t face the judgment he knew he deserved.

“Now, whore, you’ll have a chance to prove yourself,” said the King, gesturing to the gladiators with his cigarette. “These are the day’s champions. As a reward for amusing me, they get to enjoy you while I decide whether or not you’re worth sampling myself. Make each man come with your mouth. Only your mouth, mind. If I see you try to cheat by using your hands, I’ll have them cut off. Understood? Speak.”

Again Luca’s voice sounded like someone else’s.

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

Luca could barely remember a time before he knew how to suck cock. He’d swallowed more loads of cum in his life than he’d eaten meals. When the first gladiator stepped up, it was the easiest thing in the world for Luca to drag his waistcloth down with his teeth and nuzzle out the man’s half-hard cock.

He was thick, and he thickened more on Luca’s tongue. The man hissed, hips snapping forward. Luca kept his mouth open wide so the King could see the cockhead sliding all the way to the back of his throat. Then he closed his lips around the base, sucking as he worked his tongue along the underside.

It didn’t take long before the gladiator was coming in long hard pulses, grinding his pubic bone against Luca’s face. Luca managed to pull back so the last stripe landed on his tongue. This was like the training house auction, when Luca had to perform with a stud slave to show how good he was at taking cock. The King would want to see Luca swallow. He’d want to see him lick his lips and open wide to show that he was ready for more.

There was more. There was more and more after that. Luca knew from experience that it was better not to keep count. To take each man as if he was the first, the last. It wasn’t difficult—or it wouldn’t have been if it wasn’t for the King’s attention pressing like a heavy hand on his neck. Luca kept his hands folded at the small of his back and deep-throated every cock like he was starving for it.

The barbarian was last. He was shoved forward by a guard, then stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, cheeks furiously red, eyes flicking back and forth between the wall and the floor. Lady, he was young. Robert’s age, maybe. (_Don’t think about Robert._) His beard was still short, face boyishly round. He wore his body awkwardly, like an oversized tunic.

Luca licked his lips and shuffled closer. Usually if a man was nervous Luca would start with his hands, but that was against the rules tonight. Instead he used his cheek, pressing it against the brawny heat of the man’s thigh. He felt the muscles jump. The man made a noise. He was panting raggedly. Luca wanted to tell him _hrønd_—_breathe_—but he didn’t dare speak without an order.

Luca went as slow as he dared, kissing his way up the man’s thigh. He was so tall that Luca had to strain to reach the tie of his waistcloth. Some of the gladiators had helped him, stripping off themselves or approaching with hard cocks already in hand, but this one was frozen like a rabbit. Luca undid the tie with his teeth. As the cloth fell away, the man made a wounded noise.

“I see the gods saw fit to proportion him as a giant in all respects,” said the King drily.

It was true. Even soft, the man’s cock was huge, a thick veiny length over heavy balls. Luca had never been with one of his own people before. It was strange to see a penis without foreskin. Like what was between his own legs, only bigger.

No. This was nothing like what Luca had. It was the cock of a real Keld, not whatever Luca was.

(_Ergihŵr. _That’s what he was.)

He risked a glance up and saw that the man’s eyes were squeezed shut. Luca laid a careful kiss on the tip of his cock. The man’s head came up, the muscles in his stomach clenching. Luca sucked lightly on the head. The man groaned, then clapped a hand to his mouth.

The King’s goblet clinked.

“Tell him that if he covers his mouth I’ll have him cut to pieces and fed to dogs.”

It had been a long time since Luca had been allowed to speak Keld. He fumbled for the words, and when he found them they tumbled from his tongue with a child’s clumsiness.

“He says not to cover your mouth,” Luca whispered. Then, in a rush, “I’m sorry—I have to, you have to, he’ll kill us if we don’t.”

The man dropped his hand, face tight with misery.

“It’s unclean.”

“Not for you. The Lady understands, she’ll forgive you, I swear.”

“I don’t recall ordering a conversation,” said the King loudly. “As interesting as this little exchange of savage pleasantries has been, if the show doesn’t start soon I’ll have to arrange for better entertainment.”

Luca knew enough of the King’s tastes to imagine what sort of entertainment he would arrange. It didn’t matter whether or not the man wanted this; it was happening.

Luca went to work, using every trick eleven years as a whore had taught him to bring the cock in his mouth to hardness. The man did nothing to help, but at least he didn’t pull away. He endured, eyes shut, the occasional small pained noise slipping out from between his clenched teeth.

Suddenly, the man’s hand fell on Luca’s hair.

“Ged,” he murmured without moving his lips.

Luca kissed his cock—Ged’s cock—to show that he understood. Then he took him deep, throat bulging around the intrusion, the agonizing stretch stinging water from his eyes. He swallowed over and over again until Ged came hot and helpless with a lost little sob, like Luca had stolen something from him.

When Luca pulled back, there was a string of cum and mucus connecting them. He lapped it up quickly. Normal men got angry when Luca was a messy cocksucker and dirtied the floor; he didn’t even want to think what the King would do.

“Well, at least that ended better than it began,” the King drawled. He snapped his fingers at Luca. “On the bed. Ass up, face down.”

Luca scrambled to obey. The damask coverlet was the softest thing he’d ever felt beneath his knees. He was grateful for the position; it meant he didn’t have to look at anyone. He just had to spread his legs and arch his back and wait to be fucked.

“You,” said the King, pointing to some unseen gladiator. “Take him. Don’t be gentle.”

_Not Ged, _Luca prayed, even though he had no right to beg the Lady for anything.

But it wasn’t Ged. Luca could tell from the way the man’s hands fell on his waist, how he lined up his cock and drove it home in one expert thrust. Then he grunted, and Luca knew him: the third gladiator he’d sucked, the one with the tight curls and smallest cock.

He knew what he was doing, opening Luca up with long strokes. Luca pushed back on him, angling his hips so he slid in balls-deep. The man groaned.

He found a rhythm, laying open-palm slaps on Luca’s ass as he fucked into him. The pain was good, a bright jolt of sensation for Luca to focus on. And the King liked his whores used, that was clear; he’d enjoy handling Luca’s ass when it was red and stinging.

“Turn him over,” the King ordered. “Back to front, as you are now.”

The gladiator knelt on the bed, arm around Luca’s waist. In one deft movement he flipped them around so that he was on his back with Luca lying atop him. Luca could see the King now, standing at the edge of the bed. He watched as the gladiator thrust up shallowly, Luca flexing his hips down to meet him. The King had stripped down to his dressing-grown, open to reveal the erection he was stroking idly. He drained the last of his wine before tossing the goblet aside and climbing onto the bed.

“I’ve always enjoyed this juxtaposition,” he murmured, running a finger up Luca’s thigh. “Brute and beauty.”

He circled Luca’s rim where he was stretched around the gladiator’s cock.

“Are you enjoying yourself, whore? How much more can you take? Speak.”

“Yes, Master,” he gasped. “Your slave can take anything—anything its master chooses to give it.”

The King smiled.

“Let’s test that, shall we?”

He shoved his finger into Luca alongside the gladiator’s cock.

Luca bore down automatically, pulling the finger deeper into him. The King made an appreciative noise. He worked in a second finger, watching Luca’s expression. _A test, _Luca thought, and schooled his face to blankness. This was uncomfortable, but not painful. Not yet. He was grateful the King had chosen the gladiator with the smallest cock; that made it easier when he added a third finger, flexing half his hand inside of Luca. It hurt now, but the pain was familiar, grounding. Luca was used to being filled up like this. He could stand it. He could stand anything. Even a fourth finger, _Lady_, he was sweating, mouth a silent _O_, and the King was watching with a dry half-smile, amusement glittering in his beautiful, dangerous eyes.

“You really can take it, can’t you,” he murmured. “To think such a delicate little thing could be so accommodating.”

The fingers withdrew, giving Luca a blessed moment of relief before the King’s cockhead pressed against his full hole. He had to fight the urge to arch up and away from that blunt pressure and everything it promised.

“Open yourself up for me, whore,” the King hissed, breathing bliss into Luca’s face.

Luca wanted to cry. Instead he reached down and hooked his fingers into his anus, prying himself wide. He reminded himself that this wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever done, holding his ass open so that a second cock could shove in. It wouldn’t even make the top ten.

That became harder to remember as the King forced himself inside. It was slow going, even lubed and stretched as Luca was. Neither cock was particularly big, but together they felt monstrous, inhuman. Luca’s head fell back on the gladiator’s shoulder, and that was a mistake, because he could see their reflections now in the mirror above the bed. Like a monster with three heads, joined together at their center parts.

Beneath him, the gladiator was panting, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slippery sheets. Luca feel his hips twitching up. _Close,_ Luca thought—and in the next minute the gladiator was coming, painting Luca’s overstretched passage with his release.

Luca knew at once that this had been a mistake. The gladiator did too. He went limp, whimpering softly.

The King’s face went blank.

“I wanted to be the first to come in his ass,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

The gladiator was shaking.

“I’m sorry, Master, I couldn’t help—”

The King snatched his cock out of Luca, leaving him gasping. He snapped his fingers at the guards. They sprang to life and marched to the bed in swift military strides. One dragged Luca off of the gladiator and threw him to his hands and knees on the bed, giving the sign to stay. Two others dragged the gladiator to the floor. He landed with a teeth-rattling crack, not bothering to break his own fall.

What happened next was like a dance so well-rehearsed it was seamless. One guard yanked the gladiator to his knees; the other pulled his sword and thrust it between his ribs. Blood came out of his mouth and from the place where metal sank into flesh. Slaves rushed forward to bundle up the body, red blooming on white cloth, red from his mouth and from the wound but none of it on the floor. They were so careful not to get any on the floor.

And then the body was gone. It was like there had never been a body at all. There was no sign that the gladiator had even existed except the semen dripping down the inside of Luca’s thigh.

Somehow in the middle of all of it, the King’s goblet had been retrieved and refilled. He stepped around the bed to where Luca knelt.

“This is your fault,” said the King, stroking his knuckle against Luca’s cheek. “You made him come without permission, didn’t you? Say it.”

“It’s my fault,” Luca whispered. “I made him come without permission.”

“And are you sorry for what you’ve done?”

Luca was sorry. He was sorrier than he’d ever been about anything in his life. He wanted to tell the King how sorry he was, how stupid—_worthless, brainless barbarian_—but he hadn’t been given an order to speak, so he could only nod, nod and nod like his neck was broken and his head was bobbing loose on the stem.

“Perhaps I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.” The King pulled his robe open. “Clean his filth off of me.”

Luca hadn’t been given the sign to move, so he didn’t dare break position. Instead he stretched his tongue to lick the drying cum of a dead man from his master’s soft cock.

When the King was satisfied, he shoved Luca’s head down and cupped his hand under his stretched-open hole.

“Push it out,” he ordered.

Luca flexed his muscles to expel the semen still inside of him. The King poured it down Luca’s throat and Luca swallowed. He licked the King’s hand clean. He sucked his fingers and kissed his palm and thought _Please, please_. He couldn’t think anything else.

The King stepped back from the bed and turned to address the gladiators.

“You’ll take him two at a time until I tell you to stop. Don’t come inside of him unless you want to end up like your colleague.” He pointed, the lamplight catching on his ring. “You and you to start. Make it hurt.”

They did. It wasn’t difficult with two cocks inside the same hole. Luca was already sore and soon he was raw, the friction and the stretch merging into a single point of agony. The gladiators had been careful with him before, but now they were ruthless, using their bodies as weapons to punish. Luca was jerked up and down, back and forth, the men sawing into him at a pace so brutal and uneven that he couldn’t catch his breath. When one gladiator began to flag he was changed out for another. It went on and on until Luca thought he would die.

He didn’t die.

The only good thing was that the King didn’t choose Ged. He pointed at the man he wanted, this one or that, but his finger never fell on Ged. That was something to be grateful for. Something to hold on to, even if Luca was bleeding now. Even if he was so bruised inside that every thrust was like being fucked with a club. _Damaged, _Luca thought, and yes, he was, his kidneys maybe, the soft parts of him that weren’t supposed to be touched.

But that wasn’t right. There was no part of him that couldn’t be touched.

Luca didn’t pass out. He didn’t have permission. But something did snap, the cord that tethered him to his body, and he floated out and up. Looking down, he couldn’t see himself. Only a void in the space where his body should be.

And then it was over. Luca was empty and no one’s hands were on him. He was on the floor, the marble cool under his back. He wondered distantly if the next thing he felt would be cold metal sliding between his ribs. He hurt so much. It didn’t seem possible that anything could hurt more.

But what he felt next was a warm spatter across his cheek. He blinked, vision sliding back into focus. The gladiators who’d fucked him were standing over him, jerking themselves off. Out of the corner of his eye, Luca saw the King’s embroidered slippers. He heard the King’s dispassionate voice giving directions.

One of the gladiators reached down with his free hand and hauled Luca to his knees. His mouth fell open automatically, offering itself as a target, a hole.

But the gladiators’ orders became clear when the first man came with a grunt, striping his cheek. Then Luca understood. He closed his eyes, trying not to flinch as one man after another spent himself on his face, his chest, in his hair. By the end he was dripping with it, wet streaks drying cold and tacky. He couldn’t stop shaking, even though this was the only part of tonight that didn’t hurt. His throat was raw, ass fucked bloody, his skin bruised so badly that the handmarks looked like burns, but this was what made him want to curl up on the floor and cry.

Instead Luca forced himself to lick the cum off his face, every bit of it he could reach. _You deserve this_, he reminded himself. A man had died because of him. He had no right to feel sorry for himself.

Anyway, it wasn’t like he hadn’t done this before. There wasn’t anything he hadn’t done.

The King dismissed the gladiators with a wave of his hand. He played his fingers idly up the underside of his half-hard cock, looking down at Luca with something horribly like affection.

“What do you say, whore?”

“Thank you, Master.”

Luca was so sure that the King would fuck his mouth that he was already sucking his dry tongue, trying to work up some saliva. But then the doors opened to admit servants bearing food—_more _food, platters and platters of it. Luca hadn’t eaten since that morning. His mouth watered of its own accord, stomach clenching in on itself.

“I require entertainment while I eat,” said the King, pulling his robe closed.

He snapped his fingers at the gladiator standing against the wall. Ged. _Oh, please, _Luca thought, _please don’t_, but what he wanted didn’t matter any more now than it ever had.

Ged didn’t resist when the guard dragged him over to Luca. Ged was bigger than the guard, so much bigger—he was as tall as Luca’s father had been, as tall as his brothers might be now if they were still alive—and he could fight, Luca had seen him fight in the arena, he was strong and fast.

But he let himself be handled. He went limp. He didn’t fight. When the guard threw him to his knees, he didn’t even bother to break his fall. His big arms came up to wrap around himself like he was cold.

The King put his foot between Ged’s shoulder blades and shoved him forward. Ged’s hands flew out; he caught himself, breathing hard. This close, Luca could smell Ged’s sweat and the blood beneath his fingernails. He could see the way his mouth trembled.

“You can rut on the floor like the dogs you are,” said the King. “Happy Centennial, barbarians.”

Luca was horribly conscious of the sticky streaks in his hair, on his chest and jaw. He gaped between his legs, hole still trying to twitch itself closed. Shame burned in his throat like bile. Of all the things that had been done to him tonight, that he’d been made to do, this was the worst. If his father could see…

It was Ged who moved first. He pressed two fingers to the inside of Luca’s knee. The gesture was light, precise. Almost a question.

“How do I…” He broke off, licking his lips. “I’ve n-never…”

_Oh, Lady, no._ This was Ged’s first time. It was his first time and Luca was going to steal it from him. Ged would never get this back. No matter who came after, he’d always have lost his virginity to a ruined, used-up whore.

“This doesn’t count,” Luca whispered urgently. “It isn’t real.”

Before Ged could reply, Luca grabbed his cock. It twitched in his hand, more out of surprise than arousal.

“Close your eyes,” Luca whispered, stroking him. “Think of someone else.”

Ged obeyed. Luca watched his face as he rubbed his cock. When he flicked his thumb over the head, Ged’s breath hitched. He murmured a name. _Sigrid_.

“You’re with her,” Luca whispered. “Just pretend you’re with her, all right?”

Ged kept his eyes closed, even when Luca pulled him down on top of him. It was easy to guide him inside with such a gaping target to aim for. The lube that Luca had been prepared with was long gone, but it only took a few strokes before he was bleeding again. Ged was big, bigger than any other man Luca had taken tonight, and the blunt head of his cock punched into that torn, bruised place like a fist.

Luca buried his face in Ged’s shoulder to muffle the stupid little noises he couldn’t seem to help. He wrapped his legs around Ged’s waist and pulled him deeper.

The rhythm was uneven at first, Ged thrusting erratically into the loose clutch of Luca’s hole. Then he found his pace and settled into it, chanting Sigrid’s name. Once the pain became predictable Luca could ride it, floating like a wreck on a wave.

It was soothing, Ged’s arms around him. Almost like being held.

Luca drifted like that for a while, skimming just over the surface of consciousness. Ged didn’t need him for this. It would be better for everyone involved if Luca wasn’t there at all.

He was brought back by the King’s shadow falling over both of them. The King pressed his foot down on the small of Ged’s back, forcing his body flush to Luca’s. He had a look in his eye, horribly familiar. Manic. Predatory. Men looked like that when they’d had too much bliss.

“Enjoying yourselves?” said Ademar nastily. “Finish up, barbarian. Better men await their turn.”

Ged understood, Luca could tell. But still he looked at Luca, as if he was the one giving the orders here.

Luca held Ged’s eye and nodded.

Ged seized up as he came. His head fell on Luca’s shoulder, hot breath stirring the damp strands of his hair.

“_Taak_,” he murmured.

Luca turned away. Ged should hate him, not thank him. He should spit in Luca’s face.

The King kicked Ged’s side.

“Take this piece of meat back to the stable. I’m done with it.”

Ged pulled out of Luca, leaving slickness leaking from his fucked-open hole. There was blood on his cock, of course—not much, but he still looked down at himself with confusion shading into horror. He opened his mouth, but the guard was there, latching the chain to his collar, and whatever he might’ve said was lost as he was dragged away.

The King looked down at Luca with his eyes narrowed, mouth twisting at the corner. Abruptly, he kicked Luca’s leg’s open.

“Spread. Wider, whore.” He laughed as Luca forced his trembling thighs into a split. “Gods, you should see yourself. So open.”

He pressed the toe of his slipper against Luca’s swollen rim.

“I could reach inside and pull out your heart.”

Luca wished he would. He didn’t know why the stubborn thing was still beating. Asher was dead; Luca should be too.

It wasn’t like he was ever going to see Robert again.

The King kicked his legs again, to close them this time.

“Get on the bed. Show me you have one hole still worth using.”

Luca forced himself to move. To crawl to the bed and drag himself onto it. The sheets were ruined now, stained with blood and sweat and other things. Like Luca. There was a kind of rightness in lying down on that filth with his head off the edge, mouth open. He was exactly where he belonged.

The King came to stand over him, erection in one hand and goblet in the other. He smacked his cock against Luca’s cheek before feeding it down his throat.

Luca had wondered whether the King would taste different from other men. Better, maybe, or cleaner. But his musk was just as thick, the weight of his scrotum just as suffocating. When he began to thrust in earnest, the glans scraping Luca’s throat burned as much as it always did. With Luca’s vision obscured like this, the man fucking his mouth could’ve been anyone. He could’ve been—

No. He couldn’t have been Robert. Not in any world.

Luca heard the clang of the King’s goblet on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the dark puddle of wine spreading on the floor, bliss shimmering on its surface. The silent slaves emerged from their corners to clean the mess. These were the cleanest floors Luca had ever seen, and the dirtiest.

The King rubbed his hand over Luca’s throat, feeling how it bulged around the intrusion. Then he pressed down, massaging his cock from the outside. Tears sprang to Luca’s eyes, even though it barely hurt. Stupid to cry when his throat wasn’t even torn. The Beast had ripped that delicate lining and fucked Luca’s face until he was choking on his own blood. That had been worse than this, a thousand times worse.

And the gladiator, the one Luca had gotten killed—this was nothing compared to what the King had done to him.

“Hot wet little whore mouth,” the King muttered, hips pumping, balls slapping Luca’s face with every thrust. “Filthy cunt.”

He was close. Luca angled his chin so that the cock could slide in as deep as possible. Then he contracted the muscles in his throat, grinding his mouth against the sweat-matted hair at the base.

The King’s climax hit hard. His hand clamped down on Luca’s throat, choking him. Luca didn’t feel the usual panic at having his air supply cut off. He saw darkness gathering on the edges of his vision and welcomed it.

The King released Luca’s throat before the shadows could close over him. He let his cock soften in Luca’s mouth, rocking his hips back and forth to milk himself. As he pulled out, he smeared the head around Luca’s lips.

“Keep your mouth open,” the King said, voice drowsy in the afterglow.

Luca obeyed. The King worked up a plug of saliva and spat on his tongue.

“Swallow.”

Luca swallowed. Everything inside of him felt wet and swollen. Like his skin was the rind of an overripe fruit. Too much pressure and he would split open, rot spilling everywhere.

“Disgusting,” the King murmured, rubbing his thumb over Luca’s inflamed mouth. He sounded almost fond.

When he cracked his palm across Luca’s cheek, it didn’t feel like a punishment. Just a finale.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains non-consensual body modification.

The doctor was a small, imperious man with dark hair arranged over his bald patch. He examined Luca with dispassionate thoroughness, maneuvering his body like a broken marionette. There was a younger doctor with him, his thin face dominated by muttonchops. The older doctor was explaining Luca’s injuries. He shined a light in Luca’s eyes and said something about _stress-induced shock_.

Luca didn’t have the strength to move. He lay limp and shivering as the doctor handled him.

“You’re fortunate to see a boy on his first night, Quincy,” said the doctor, probing the bruises on Luca’s throat. “This is an excellent representative case.”

“Yes, Dr. Elmsworth.” Dr. Quincy hesitated, then asked, “Are they always like this after?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

Dr. Quincy pushed back a flop of chestnut curls, looking lost for words. Luca knew that he had no right to feel sorry for a free man, but he couldn’t help it. Dr. Quincy was so clearly out of his depth even before Dr. Elmsworth directed Luca onto his hands and knees and shoved his legs apart.

“You’ll note the loss of elasticity in the anus and rectum,” said Dr. Elmsworth, pushing into Luca with a dry gloved finger. “And fissures, of course; half our work in the seray is treating fissures. But this one’s lucky. He would’ve taken far worse damage had this opening not seen so many years of heavy use.”

Dr. Quincy blinked, owlish behind his spectacles.

“Sir?”

“He’s a professional, Quincy,” said Dr. Elmsworth, rolling his eyes. “My case, please. No, the _other_ case; the one you’ve decided to swing around so cavalierly is for the gladiator stable.”

Red-faced, Dr. Quincy passed him the correct case. Dr. Elmsworth put it on the table and snapped it open. He took out a syringe and a vial of thick amber liquid.

“Are you familiar with Velox?” he asked, pushing the needle through the cap of the vial and pulling back the plunger.

“Jockeys use it, don’t they, sir? It accelerates healing in horses.”

“Not just horses, Quincy.” Dr. Elmsworth tapped the glass of the syringe so that bubbles floated up into the hollow mouth of the needle. “On your side, boy. Knees up, there’s a good lad.”

Dr. Quincy’s eyes went wide.

“But sir, surely you aren’t proposing we use Velox on a human patient? I mean to say, it’s illegal on the _racetrack_—my gods, the side effects are catastrophic, just think of the damage to his heart—”

“Do you really think this slave is going to live long enough to die of heart failure, Quincy?”

Dr. Quincy opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked so distressed that Luca had to fight the urge to pat his arm and reassure him that it was all right. Pleasure slaves died young, if they were lucky; Luca had always known that.

The needle entered his thigh. He clenched his teeth against the sharp-dull ache as the point was forced deep into muscle. Some streak of morbid curiosity made him watch as Dr. Elmsworth pushed down the plunger.

And then his heart stopped.

Like a star collapsing in his chest. Burning pressure. A vacuum, airless, sucking inward—

—_the absence of light_—

—before exploding out, his heart thudding back to life. Luca gasped, sensation flooding him. He could see every bead of sweat trembling on his eyelashes. His heart was punching his ribcage, trying to break out. The throb rattled his teeth, his bones. He felt it in his marrow. He wasn’t held together by much; that throb could rattle him apart.

“…absolutely crucial to follow Velox with digitalis,” Dr. Elmsworth was saying. “Otherwise you’ll have a corpse on your hands.”

Another needle. This one bit like a wasp. Luca felt a kick before his heartbeat slowed. He could hear his breathing, high and ragged. Little muscles twitched in his legs. He was slick with sweat. A drop ran down his cheekbone and burst on the table.

“There, see? He’s back with us.”

_Where did I go? _Luca wanted to ask. But he didn’t have permission to speak.

There was something warm in his palm. Luca made out the shape of a hand holding his. Robert? No, Dr. Quincy. His fingers were clammy and delicate, almost as thin as Luca’s own.

When Dr. Elmsworth turned back to his case, Dr. Quincy pushed the sweaty hair out of Luca’s eyes.

“Are you all right?” he whispered urgently.

Luca forced himself to nod. He could tell the difference between hurt pain and healing pain. He would survive this; he’d survived worse.

But when Dr. Elmsworth pulled another syringe from the case, Luca couldn’t help the whimper that escaped him. He squeezed Dr. Quincy’s hand, silently begging him not to let go.

“This is a serum of my own design,” said Dr. Elmsworth, filling the barrel. “I was originally developing it to treat blood loss, but one of the side effects proved more promising.”

He turned to see Dr. Quincy patting Luca’s hand in an effort to calm him.

“Really?” said Dr. Elmsworth, arching an eyebrow.

Dr. Quincy went red.

“At University, we were taught to treat our patients with a sympathetic bedside manner,” he said stiffly.

“Slaves aren’t patients, you fool; they’re subjects.” Then, when Dr. Quincy didn’t let go, “His Majesty has no room in his employ for mollycoddlers, Quincy, and neither do I. Now, you are going to put this bit in the boy’s very valuable mouth so that he doesn’t bite off his very valuable tongue, and then you are going to learn how to administer the serum. Understood?”

Dr. Quincy looked like he was about to make a retort. Quickly, Luca pulled his hand away and curled it to his chest. Dr. Quincy had been so kind to him; he needed to know that Luca wasn’t worth getting in trouble for.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that,” Dr. Elmsworth muttered.

A muscle jumped in Dr. Quincy’s jaw. Still, he took the piece of leather Dr. Elmsworth was holding out. Luca opened his mouth so that he could settle the bit between his teeth.

“You can make as much noise as you need to,” Dr. Quincy said quietly, ignoring Dr. Elmsworth’s snort of derision.

Luca tried to smile at him around the bit. He wasn’t going to make any more noise than he could help, but it was nice to know that he wouldn’t be punished for it.

This time when the needle stabbed in, Luca was ready. He breathed out as it sank deeper, inhaled when the plunger pushed in. Dr. Elmsworth was talking, using big words that Luca didn’t know. He caught _muscle contractions _before the first cramp hit, seizing his thighs and lower belly in a vise. He doubled over, fingers closing on air.

“The dose isn’t quite as precise as I’d like it to be,” Dr. Elmsworth sighed. “Fortunately only the target muscles are permanently affected. Come back in a few hours and you’ll find him as tight as a virgin.”

Luca’s teeth dug into the bit. _A few hours. _

He heard himself sob, soft and hopeless.

“Come, Quincy,” said Dr. Elmsworth, snapping his case shut. “We’ve the gladiator stable to see to still. Do be careful; if you try to hold any hands there, you might lose a finger.”

Dr. Quincy muttered something, but Luca couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own panting. There was a light touch on his wrist, almost like an apology. Then it was gone, and Luca was left to writhe alone in the prison of his skin.

Had Robert ever given the matter any serious consideration, he would have thought that turning traitor against king and country would prove difficult. It turned out to be as easy as slipping Alfred a message when he came with the dinner tray.

Argent had ordered Robert confined to his rooms at Lightcliffe—_not _locked in, Tolliver stressed; my lord wasn’t a prisoner, after all. In his magnanimity, Argent was even going to let Robert collect his own belongings from University in the morning.

“How generous of him to let me off the leash so soon after choking me with it,” Robert muttered.

Tolliver pretended not to hear him.

When Robert passed Alfred the note—a particularly incendiary quote from _The Mouth of Iron_; he couldn’t think of anything else that would make his intentions clear while affording him some degree of plausible deniability—the man gave no sign that he understood its significance. He left Robert to a sleepless night of tossing and turning with a letter opener in his hand, certain that at any moment the Watch would kick down his door.

At least paranoia was a distraction. Even the prospect of interrogation paled in comparison to whatever horrors Luca was no doubt enduring in Ademar’s bedroom.

_Your fault, _Robert reminded himself. As if he could ever forget.

In the morning, Tolliver arrived to help Robert bathe and dress. Alfred lingered on the edge of the room, watching silently.

“Unfortunately business prevents me from accompanying you into town today,” said Tolliver, tying Robert’s cravat with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“Accident in the kitchen,” said Alfred.

Tolliver’s mouth tightened.

“His lordship needn’t be bothered with the details. In any case, Alfred will be serving as your valet. If all goes well, he may assume the position on a more permanent basis.”

Robert met Alfred’s eyes in the mirror. His handsome face was as impassive as always.

“Fine,” said Robert in his best Gracegarden drawl. It was almost too easy to inflect his voice with that note of haughty boredom.

When the carriage stopped at the foot of the hill, Robert was unsurprised. There was a hired hansom waiting; Robert and Alfred climbed inside.

“Windows up,” said Alfred, pulling the blinds.

“You don’t want me to see where we’re going?”

Alfred rolled his eyes.

“I don’t want people to see you where you’re not supposed to be.”

That made sense. With his height and his hair, Robert stood out even when he was nobody. Now that he was the Grand Chancellor’s heir, his looks were more a liability than ever.

The hansom let them out on the seamy edge of the Merchant District. Robert expected to smell the familiar stench of the lower city, but instead he was hit with the rich aroma of—

“Coffee?” he said incredulously.

Alfred pointed to a nondescript brick building. The wooden sign hanging by the door depicted a rosebush growing out of a beehive. Looping letters read THE THORN.

Inside, the coffeehouse really did resemble a hive. Men sat around tables with cups of thick black coffee, all of them talking to and over each other. Robert was taken aback to see a few women among their number—and not whores, either, but milk-fed merchant’s daughters and shopgirls in sensible dress, all holding forth as loudly as any of the men. There was even a tommy, looking rather dapper in her waistcoat and cocked hat. She winked at Robert as she passed by.

“What _is _this place?” Robert asked.

Alfred was looking around, clearly trying to locate someone.

“A coffeehouse. You’ve never been? Thought you were supposed to be all liberal-minded.”

“I’m having my horizons expanded,” said Robert, watching the tommy kiss a pretty shopgirl on the mouth.

Alfred raised his hand to a barmaid in the crowd. No, Robert realized, not _in _the crowd; she was somehow the center of its orbit. And no wonder. She was one of the most strikingly beautiful women Robert had ever seen.

“Elif Karga,” said Alfred as the woman made her way over to them. “Proprietress’s daughter.”

Elif moved like a bantam fighter, quick and light on her feet. She had reddish skin a shade deeper than bronze and thick black hair caught up in a white kerchief. Her eyes were light gray, oblique as a cat’s; they evaluated Robert with cool intelligence.

“You’ve not paid, my lord,” she said, nodding at a lacquered box fixed to the wall by the door. “It’s a penny apiece.”

When Robert dropped two pennies through the slot, two red wax-stamped tokens fell out.

“Scald the land, that’s clever,” said Robert. “How does it work? Is there a coin-weighted scale inside?”

Elif half-smiled and raised her shoulder in a half-shrug.

“Oh, we have all sorts of tricks here. Your friend can tell you.” She turned to Alfred. “He’s in the back.” Then, to Robert, “You can wait at the bar. That token will buy you a cup and keep it full, as long as you abide by the rules of the house.”

Robert followed her finger to the words carved into the dark wood over the bar. _Preeminence of Rank none Here should Minde but take the next Seat Ye can Finde_.

“Don’t be a pompous ass, in other words,” said Elif. “Under this roof, your title means nothing.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” said Robert sincerely.

Alfred deposited him on a worn stool at the bar before disappearing down a side passage with Elif. The massive cauldron bubbling under the chimney was clearly the source of the heavenly fumes wafting through the Thorn. It was being stirred by a woman who could’ve been Elif’s dark-eyed sister were it not for the silver in her braids.

Madame Karga took a tin cup from the shelf and ladled it full of the dark fragrant syrup that looked nothing like any coffee Robert had ever drunk. She put the cup down in front of him.

“We serve it black as pitch, sweet as love, strong as a woman,” Madame Karga declared. Then she arched an eyebrow. “Usually first-timers have something to say about that.”

“I assure you, I have the greatest respect for women.”

“Ah. So you only go to bed with boys, then?”

Robert laughed.

“Do men who sleep with women not respect them?”

Madame Karga didn’t quite smile, but her eyes sparkled with humor.

“It’s an old proverb in Torké. They say men always underestimate the one who shares their pillow.”

Robert was trying to reassure Madame Karga that he never underestimated his lovers when Alfred appeared in the passage threshold. He jerked his chin at Robert.

“They’re ready for you,” said Madame Karga. “Don’t forget the cup; I want your review.”

Robert followed Alfred down a narrow corridor that opened into a number of little side rooms. The air became smokier as they went deeper into the Thorn—mostly tobacco, but Robert detected a hint of woodsmoke. Something was being burned in one of these rooms. Paper, maybe?

They turned down another corridor. Robert was no longer sure they were in the same building; the walls between these old rowhouses were sometimes knocked out or rearranged, almost always for illicit purposes. He’d learned that working for Harrow. Funny to think Robert would be falling back on his Docktown smarts now, with Argent’s silver ring heavy on his finger.

The next corner they turned brought them into an alcove with a door at one end. Hugo was leaning against the doorway with a cigarette between his teeth. Seeing Robert, he grinned.

“Thought you didn’t have a fucking death wish.”

“I drink myself sick, sneak down to the wharf to go five rounds with whatever tough will fight me, and let Adrian Courtney lead me in a merry dance, and you think I don’t have a death wish?” Robert returned.

Hugo burst out laughing.

“Gods, did I really say that? Wasn’t pulling any punches, was I?”

“I remember leaving your room with the psychic equivalent of a black eye.”

“Got through to you though, didn’t I?” Before Robert could answer, he said, “You met Elif?” Then, when Robert nodded: “I’m going to marry her.”

“Congratulations. Does she know?”

“I’m working on it.”

Alfred clearly had no patience for Hugo. He rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

“There’s a busy man waiting,” he pointedly.

To Robert’s surprise, Hugo looked chagrined. He extinguished his cigarette and tucked it behind his ear.

“I’m going to have to pat you down,” he told Robert apologetically.

Robert had been searched for weapons many times before. He gave his cup to Alfred, shucked off his jacket, and braced himself against the wall.

“Would you like a ladder?” he asked Hugo over his shoulder.

“Fuck off, Fitz.”

After giving him a completely incompetent patdown that wouldn’t have uncovered weapons even if he’d been carrying any, Hugo unlocked the door and bowed Robert inside with a flourish.

The room was stacked ceiling-high with boxes and boxes of pamphlets. Robert could make out bookshelves along the walls, though the books had been made almost completely inaccessible by the boxes. There was a big weatherbeaten table in the center of the room. Sitting with a pen in hand and his bad foot on a pillow was Bartimaeus Kemp.

Robert was somehow completely unsurprised.

“You,” he said. “Of course.”

“Naturally,” said Kemp with a smile. “Who else?”

He put down his pen and gestured to the seat next to him. Robert slid into it, dislodging a stack of pamphlets. They fluttered to the floor like shot doves.

“Happens all the time,” said Kemp, waving his hand. “I keep saying that we need a secretary, but alas, no one has been eager to volunteer.”

“I wouldn’t imagine that revolutionaries go in for administrative work,” said Robert. “I take it I’m speaking to the author of _The Mouth of Iron?_”

“Among other things,” said Kemp distractedly, pushing through a stack of papers in search of something. “What did you think of it?”

Robert thought for a moment before answering.

“For all you talk of freedom and bondage, you never address slavery.”

“Good point. That was an oversight, though not an intentional one. _The Mouth _was always intended as a populist gloss rather than an exhaustive inventory of grievances—” Kemp caught his pen before it rolled off the table. “And, of course, I’m writing for a free audience. Though I hope you’ll find it in keeping with the general thrust of my beliefs that I believe slavery to be a vile and outdated institution whose practice demeans the owner as much as the bondsman.”

Robert wondered what Luca would have to say about that. He wondered what was happening to Luca right now, if he was hurt or hungry or frightened. There was an ache in Robert’s chest where Luca had been torn from him. It hurt in a dull, throbbing way, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Kemp seemed to have given up on whatever it was he was looking for.

“I must admit, Robert, you’ve surprised me twice now,” he said, steepling his fingers. “First when you refused Hugo’s offer, and then again when you made contact with Alfred. I’m not often surprised, so you can imagine how this little drama intrigues me. With your permission, I’d like to sketch what I’ve figured out so far, and you can tell me if I’ve got it right.”

“Be my guest,” said Robert, leaning back in his rickety chair.

“You were born in Docktown, that much is clear. We all know who your father was; as for your mother, I’ve narrowed down a few possibilities, all local girls of some beauty and ambition. I know that you were the protégé of the infamous Theobald Harrow. Extrapolating from reports of his redheaded right hand as well as what I’ve been told about your skill with the sword, I take it there was a period of time when you killed for him. How am I doing?”

Robert’s throat had gone dry; he took a sip of coffee before replying.

“Pretty well so far, though my mother was always more ambitious than beautiful. What else do you think you know?”

“Only a little more than most. Lord Argent took you in when you were fifteen, shortly after the death of your father. From that polished accent of yours, he invested in some very fine tutors who were paid handsomely for their discretion. Two years later, you were presented at Highcourt as his ward; shortly thereafter he enrolled you at University, where you met our mutual friend Hugo Forteys. But that isn’t the interesting part of the story.”

“And what is?”

Kemp smiled.

“Until yesterday, there lived a little bird in Paradiso who sang for his keeper. For a price, his keeper passed along the tune. In all the years I’ve listened, this bird never hit a false note. Until you.”

Robert gave a short bark of laughter. He didn’t know how to feel: enraged, relieved, or just fucking impressed.

“So you’re the one Luca’s pimp had him collecting information for,” said Robert. “I can’t say that Boq struck me as the revolutionary type.”

From his expression, Robert could tell that Kemp cared as little for the man as he did.

“Gregori Boq is under the impression that he’s in the employ of a merchant consortium based out of Oued,” said Kemp sourly. Then, his voice softening, “You call the boy Luca?”

“That’s his name.”

“Few men would bother to ask for it.”

Finally, Kemp seemed to find what he was looking for: a green folder stuffed with papers of varying age and provenance.

“When I realized that the slave—Luca—had passed along false information, I took a closer look at both your histories,” Kemp continued. “He proved a great deal easier to track than you, as the sale of slaves is a matter of public record. I couldn’t identify where you might have overlapped until I discovered that he was owned for a time by a Lord Crawley. According to household accounts, one of Crawley’s maidservants was dismissed at the same time the boy vanished from his household. One Wilhelmina Blackpot, formerly of Docktown.” He held up a page. “And Ms. Blackpot had a nephew.”

“And from there I suppose you found the complaint Crawley filed with the Watch against said nephew,” said Robert, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Your grandfather had all records of both the complaint and the arrest warrant quite thoroughly destroyed,” said Kemp. “I wouldn’t have known about it at all had Emine not made enquiries. Madame Karga,” he clarified, seeing Robert’s confusion. “There are no shortage of sympathizers in the Watch, you know, and they all end up at the Thorn at some point.”

“I believe it,” said Robert.

He took deep drink of the coffee. It was marvelously strong stuff, spiced with cloves and cardamom.

“I should congratulate you, Kemp. It seems you’ve assembled a very neat little blackmail dossier.”

To his credit, Kemp looked horrified.

“You misunderstand me. I never intended to blackmail you.”

“To incentivize me, then. Come on, Kemp; you know who I worked for. I’m well aware of how this game is played.”

“Educate me.”

Robert leaned forward, putting his hands palm-up on the table.

“You need me. Ademar surrounds himself with toadies and yes-men who’ve gotten fat off his favor; you won’t sell any of them on regime change. And everyone knows how the lords close ranks. Even with your position at Highcourt, you’ll always be a commoner, an outsider. But me, well, I can go places you can’t. And to get me, you needed leverage.” He laughed bitterly. “Gods, you must have been furious when you found out that my grandfather had taken Luca. That was a real wrench in your plans, wasn’t it?”

Kemp was rubbing his forehead.

“You have no idea. The boy was one of my most valuable assets. And yes, I will admit that I had hoped to use him as…well, call it an incentive.”

“You still can,” said Robert. “Bribe me.”

Robert was fully aware that he was putting all his cards face-up on the table. So was Kemp. He stared at Robert with frank evaluation.

“You want the boy,” said Kemp slowly.

“Yes. More than anything.”

“Whatever impression I’ve given you of my influence, Robert, I can’t simply confiscate a pleasure slave from the King’s seray,” said Kemp, shaking his head. “You’re aware of the aims of this organization?”

“You want Kenever on the throne.”

“Among other things, yes. And should we succeed in displacing Ademar, I will do everything in my power to ensure that the boy becomes yours.”

“That’s not enough,” said Robert, not bothering to hide his frustration.

“Be that as it may, it’s all I can offer.”

His face was open; there was no guile there. It was the truth, then. Not even Kenever’s spymaster could rescue Luca from the King.

“Then I want to see him,” Robert said, hating the whine that crept into his voice.

“That would be almost impossible to arrange.”

“_Almost _impossible.”

Kemp drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“Fine. One meeting. But you’re taking both your lives into your hands.”

“I can live with that,” said Robert. Taking their lives into his hands was nothing new. “And there’s something else.”

Kemp was rubbing his forehead again. Robert was getting the impression that he was a man who suffered many headaches.

“Go on.”

“There’s another boy at the Harlequin, a debt-slave named Asher. I want him freed.”

Kemp gave a bark of laughter.

“What sort of resources do you think this organization has?”

“I thought that slavery was a vile and outdated institution. Or are you all talk?”

“Hugo’s right,” said Kemp. “Your accent does slip.”

“I’m still a Docktown tough under all the posh, Kemp,” said Robert cheerfully. “That’s why I’m going to be such a valuable asset.”

“Fine. The boy will be freed. Do you want anything else? A racehorse, perhaps? A coffer full of unmarked gold bars?”

“Nah, wouldn’t want to have to haul it around. So, we have a deal?”

“We do indeed, as you say, have a deal.”

Kemp extended his hand. Robert shook it.

“Now, let’s talk details,” said Robert, kicking his feet up on the table. “How d’you want Lord Robert Argent to serve the revolution?”

The serum wore off with excruciating slowness. One of the attendants deposited Luca on a cushion in the corner of the seray to twitch and shiver through the last of it. The cushion was more comfortable than the doctor’s table, at least; that was something to be thankful for. Luca was sorry that he was soaking through the satin with sweat.

He was so spent by the aftershocks of pain that he almost didn’t notice when another boy crouched down beside him. The boy’s shaved head made Luca think of a river stone, rubbed smooth by the water.

“Nahab,” said the boy quietly.

It took a few tries before Luca could say his own name in response. Nahab nodded, tracing a finger along the grain of the marble floor.

“The first night is always the worst,” he said. “He likes to test the new boys.”

Luca nodded. That made sense; the first night with a new master was always horrible. And Luca must have passed the test. He was still alive, after all.

“How long have you been here?” Luca asked. His voice was as thin and cracked as old glass.

Nahab hitched up a shoulder.

“Many months, I think. The boys who were here when I came are gone now.”

Luca was saved from having to think about that by a final shudder of pain rippling through him. He recovered to see Nahab watching him with sympathy.

“They gave me the same,” he said. “That shot only once, thank gods. But the other many times.”

Luca didn’t know how many times he could have his heart stop and start like that before he went completely mad. To keep from thinking about it, he asked, “Where are you from?”

“Dir Mun Sayut. In the north of Enkaare. You?”

“Ost. In Keld, by the sea.”

“You’ll return there when you die. And me to my home.” Nahab’s smile didn’t reach his shadowed eyes. “Many months is a long time in this place. I won’t be here for many more.”

Hearing the sound of Aquila’s plummy, imperious voice, they both looked up. Aquila had arrived with a silent coterie of attendants. He was speaking to the head guard—issuing _orders, _Lady, he was even looking the guard in the _eye_, as though the guard were the slave and Aquila the free man. Even more astonishing, the guard was listening with his head deferentially lowered. When Aquila pointed a plump finger at Luca, the guard hurried at once to fetch him.

To his surprise, Luca found that he’d healed enough to stand and follow without limping. His body felt no more strained than it did after an especially taxing practice session. That should’ve been a relief, but Luca felt dread twist in his chest.

The Velox worked. That meant Luca could be hurt over and over again and then made ready for the King to use as if nothing had happened. He could be put through a hundred more nights like the last one. He could be used like that every single night until the King got bored and killed him—or until his heart stopped, or his mind snapped. Whichever came first.

“His Majesty has summoned you,” Aquila announced without preamble. “You’ll attend him at the royal table.”

Luca burst into tears. He couldn’t help it. He hurt so much, every part of him, and he hadn’t slept in days, and Asher was dead, and he would never see Robert again. He felt raw, like someone had peeled off his skin and left his insides exposed. If the King made him take another gladiator, Luca was going to start screaming and never stop.

At least he knew how to cry without making any noise. Aquila picked imaginary lint from his robe until Luca got himself under control.

“Are you finished?”

Luca nodded, scrubbing the back of his hand over his face.

“Good. Never do that again.”

Under Aquila’s imperious gaze, attendants cleaned and readied Luca. His eyes were lined with kohl, lips and cheeks rubbed with carmine; white ribbons were braided into his hair. The attendants were clearly used to dealing with limp, dead-eyed boys. They handled him like a doll, guiding his body into the poses they wanted before bending him over to prepare him.

Luca knew the breach would be agony—and it was, but not for the reason he expected. He wasn’t sore and torn inside, he was just _tight_, so tight the attendant had to work to slide a single finger in. Luca’s body hadn’t resisted like this since he was a child. He remembered how much it hurt when Master Commissioner fucked him the first time and had to fight back a surge of panic.

“I see Elmsworth’s serum has done its work,” said Aquila approvingly. “Don’t worry, boy; His Majesty will expect to find you in this condition.”

Somehow Luca found that less than reassuring.

The guards brought him through the side passage again. There must be a whole labyrinth of narrow corridors winding around the grand halls of the palace proper. House slaves and low-ranked servants dressed in drab grays and browns hustled by, their arms full of rags and dishes and other items of work. They were all too busy to spare Luca more than a glance.

As they drew closer to the dining room, Luca saw fewer slaves and more higher-ranked servants. A few wore white-and-crimson livery trimmed in gold braid. Footmen, he thought. Luca kept his eyes down, but he could feel theirs on him, taking in his nakedness with undisguised interest. They must think it safe to leer at His Majesty’s boys in these corridors. Luca knew they’d never dare look at him like this in front of the King.

His heart seemed to beat faster and faster the closer they came to the door at the end of the passage. When they reached it, the overtaxed muscle clenched in his chest like a fist.

“Ready?” said the guard. He was looking at Luca with something like pity.

Luca took a few deep breaths to steady himself. (He used to fill his lungs like this before ducking underwater to scrape down the boats—and wasn’t it strange to remember that now? Luca hadn’t thought of Ost this much in years.) Then he nodded. The guard slid the door open and motioned him inside.

The King’s private dining room was almost as opulent as his bedchamber. Luca took in gilded walls and chairs upholstered in blue velvet before he slipped to his knees, forehead to the parquet floor.

The King sat at a table laden with food, noisily attacking his breakfast plate. There was a footman at his elbow, reading the day’s itinerary from a roll of parchment. Luca could feel the foul mood that radiated from the King like a static field. Hungover, Luca thought, and sulking about it.

“If you don’t stop that noise, I will have you hanged by your bowels from Cherish Gate,” the King snapped, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth. “Go. _Go!” _he shouted when the footman bowed himself from the room too slowly.

The footman backwards-sprinted the last few steps to the door. He closed it just in time for the porcelain creamer to shatter on the door instead of in his face.

Luca could feel the King’s attention turn to him. He resisted the urge to pull his body in as small as possible.

The King signaled for Luca to crawl to him. He yanked open his dressing gown and stabbed a finger at his soft cock.

“See what you can do about that.”

Luca obeyed. He slipped under the table and knelt between the King’s legs. The King had gone back to his plate and was pointedly ignoring him. Luca couldn’t see his master’s face from this angle, and he was glad. Without those pale eyes on him, it was easy to devote his full attention to his master’s cock.

Luca didn’t know whether last night’s rule was still in place, but he didn’t dare use his hands. Instead he took the limp organ directly into his mouth, sliding his tongue along the underside. He didn’t suck at first, just let the King feel the wet heat of his mouth. Then he made a ring with his lips, slipping the foreskin back and forth over the head.

That got a reaction. The King’s hips twitched up, his shaft swelling in Luca’s mouth. Encouraged, Luca flicked the slit with his tongue. He was rewarded with a burst of bitter fluid. His master’s cock was almost fully erect now, curving up to hit the roof of his mouth. Luca let the head rub against his palate before taking the King deep, angling his throat so that he slid home. Then he opened his jaw and pushed out his tongue to lick the soft sac of his balls.

“Well, aren’t we a motivated little whore this morning?” said the King. His tone was sneering, but Luca didn’t miss the breathless note in his voice.

He kept licking, rocking his head just enough to work the shaft buried in his throat. By the time Luca pulled back, the King was hard and throbbing. He fell back in his chair, eyes closed, his breakfast forgotten.

Luca felt a small thrill. It was always nice to make a man lose himself like this. Almost like being in control.

_No._ No, of course Luca wasn’t in control. What a stupid, dangerous thing to think. He was something his master used to get off with, that’s all.

It helped when the King grabbed Luca’s head with both hands and started to fuck his face. A reminder. _This is what you are_._ Nothing but a hole for your master to use. _That hadn’t changed, at least, even if the rest of Luca’s world had been knocked on its axis. The sum total of his existence had always been limited to the cock of the man who owned him.

Luca heard the doors of the dining room open as the King came in a long, hot pulse on his tongue. The King threw his head back, hips rolling as he cursed with a sailor’s abandon. He milked the last of his spunk from the tip before shoving Luca’s mouth down on his softening cock.

“Keep it warm for me, whore,” he murmured, brushing the hair away from Luca’s face.

The man who’d entered the room cleared his throat.

“I don’t know the last time I saw you so enraptured, cousin. Is that Argent’s present under the table?”

The voice was plummy, amused. Luca would have known him for a lord even if he hadn’t addressed the King so familiarly. _Cousin, _he’d called him. The audacity made Luca’s stomach twist. This man must be a favorite member of the royal family to be allowed to address the King like that.

“It is indeed,” the King replied. His hand lingered on Luca’s hair, stroking him like a pet. “The pretty little thing is exceptionally talented at taking cock. From both ends, I might add.”

The other man laughed.

“Watching him dance yesterday, I remember thinking that he had a face just begging to be fucked. I’m glad to see you’ve put it to good use.”

The King grinned, running a finger around the seal of Luca’s lips. Then he used the same finger to push him back by the forehead. The cock slipped from Luca’s mouth with a wet plop.

“I shall allow him to wait on me for the rest of the meal,” the King announced. “A reward for being so very clever with his mouth.”

He gave Luca the sign to stand, and then another sign, not as familiar; it took Luca moment to remember it. _Fill my glass_. Of course.

Luca rose at once and poured a fragrant stream of tea into the King’s empty cup. Then, on the King’s command, he knelt, legs together, hands on his knees. The movements were so deeply ingrained that he executed them by rote.

“Very well trained,” said the other man approvingly. “I recognize his brand; that house is famed for quality. Too bad they only turn out a handful of boys a year, and at extortionist prices.”

“Father always did say that one gets what one pays for,” said the King. “He was speaking about mercenaries, of course, but the maxim holds.”

The King took a vial from the pocket of his robe. He uncapped it and shook a few silver droplets into his tea. Bliss. Bliss with _breakfast_. Oh, Lady, he was completely addicted.

If the other man was taken aback, he didn’t comment.

“Do you think Argent’s liberality has anything to do with that bastard he’s named his heir?” he said with contrived disinterest.

“Undoubtedly,” said the King, lifting the teacup to his lips. “To think that only a few years ago he was railing against the intermarriage of Solasan nobles with foreigners. _Diluting our precious blood_, I believe he called it.”

“I doubt Robert Argent’s blood has been diluted with anything more precious than sewer water. His grandson may act like he was born and raised in Gracegarden, but his knuckles tell a different story.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” said the King, clearly keen on this bit of gossip. “Of course, Rafe, you can’t deny that he has our great-grandfather’s looks. And his height,” he added, with a twist of malice.

From the sour silence that followed, Luca took it that this had hit a nerve.

After a moment, the other man—Lord Rafe—muttered, “I happen to think there’s something rather barbarian about that kind of height.”

Luca heard Lord Rafe approach. He went still as the man’s shadow fell over him.

“Then again, Argent’s present is a slip of a thing, isn’t he? Like one of those little glass figurines that my mother collects.”

Lord Rafe tilted Luca’s face up with a finger under his chin. He and the King had the same pale green eyes and hair the color of dried blood. Only where the King was fine-boned Lord Rafe was coarse, like a bad drawing of the original. He looked down at Luca with naked hunger, running a thumb over his swollen lips. Luca knew that Lord Rafe was imagining them around his cock. He suppressed a shudder.

“Argent really did outdo himself,” Lord Rafe murmured, almost to himself. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lovelier boy.”

“And I don’t remember giving you permission to touch my present,” said the King.

His voice was as light and cool as frost over glass, but Luca heard the threat coiled there. So did Lord Rafe. He dropped Luca’s face and stepped away quickly.

“Forgive me, cousin. The boy made me forget myself.”

Luca felt a burst of indignation, then squelched it. He had no right to object to anything a lord said about him.

“Yes, I anticipate Argent’s present being quite the distraction,” said the King drily. “But mind you covet prudently, cousin. As eager as you always are to snap up my leftovers, it may be some time before I tire of the little barbarian. I would hate to see impatience make you rash.”

As he spoke, the King made the sign for Luca to crawl to him. He hadn’t bothered to close the dressing gown; his cock lay half-hard against his thigh, the bliss doing its work.

The King grabbed Luca’s hair and dragged him closer.

“Do tell the Steward to prepare my horse on your way out,” the King said to Lord Rafe.

If Lord Rafe replied, Luca didn’t hear. In the next moment the King cleared the table with a sweep of his arm. Glass and fine china smashed against the floor, food spilling everywhere. Sweet buns rolled in all directions. A knife embedded itself in the parquet.

The King yanked Luca to his feet and threw him over the table. Luca caught himself, automatically widening his stance and lifting his hips. He scarcely had time to take a breath before the King was spreading him open and driving inside.

It would’ve been agony even if he’d been gentle. But the King put his full weight behind each thrust, hissing at the friction as he forced his way through the tight ring of muscle.

Luca couldn’t help the bitten-off sob that escaped him. He should’ve known how to relax around the intrusion, but it was like his body had forgotten. It was like this was new.

The memory came to Luca, unbidden, of how much he’d wanted to make his body new for Robert. As if he could ever pass himself off as whole. The tearing agony between his legs was nothing more than a reminder of what he’d lost half a lifetime ago. Even if he was given this horrible serum every day until the King got bored and killed him, Luca would never be clean.

The gladiator from Ost had known that. He’d taken one look at Luca and known exactly what he was.

Luca felt something inside of him give way. The King drove home with a grunt, pressing their bodies flush. Luca felt coarse hair scraping his crack. Damp breath in his ear. The King’s tongue flicked out to trace a wet trail around the shell. He scraped his teeth over the soft place where Luca’s jaw met his neck. His cock was huge and hard and unforgiving. It felt _wrong_ somehow, worse than anything Luca had ever had inside of him. Like a mace buried in his gut.

Luca was trembling. He didn’t know why.

“I like owning things that other people want,” the King murmured, brushing his lips against Luca’s ear.

He drew out slowly, letting Luca feel every inch. Then he snapped his hips, driving back inside. His balls slapped against Luca’s crack.

He did it again. And again. It hurt, but Luca was used to being hurt like this. After a while, he didn’t even feel it. He didn’t feel anything at all.


	13. Chapter 13

Robert awoke to the sound of someone moving in his room. It was night; through the window he could see the ink-dark sky. Robert slid his hand under his pillow and gripped the handle of his knife. He listened to the footfalls approaching his bed. Strange how calm he felt—calmer, in fact, than he’d been since Argent’s coup.

When the intruder reached the bed, Robert struck. He’d underestimated the man’s height; the kick hit low, catching his crotch instead of his stomach. The man doubled over before hitting his knees with a thud.

Robert was out of bed in a moment. He threw the man onto his back and straddled him with a hand over his mouth and the knife to his throat.

Alfred scowled up at him, dark eyes full of reproach.

_Fuck_.

Robert jumped up, tossing the knife on the bed. He reached down and hauled Alfred to his feet. Alfred smoothed down his uniform, then shoved Robert hard enough to knock the breath from his chest.

“You crazy bastard!” Alfred hissed. “The last time I had a knife to my throat I was jumped by a barbarian at Cathar Lough.”

“Isn’t it nice that civilian life has proved so exciting?” said Robert. His heart was still pounding.

“_No_.”

Robert had to bite back a bark of wild laughter. His veins were flooded with adrenaline. Some mad part of him wanted to shove Alfred back just to see what the man would do. Robert had tormented himself halfway into lunacy with images of Luca and the King; guilt was a knife between his ribs that cut into him with every breath. If Alfred struck him now, it would be a relief. That pain at least would crest and end, not go on and on inexorably.

Alfred was looking at him uneasily. Robert supposed he must look a little mad. He smoothed his hair back and tried to bring his expression under control.

“Khalkeus sent for you,” said Alfred.

“The crippled god of metalworking?” said Robert, frowning.

“_No. _It’s what we call—”

Oh, Kemp. Of course.

“Very clever,” said Robert. “When do I get an alias?”

“Just get dressed,” said Alfred, rubbing his forehead.

A cart met them at the delivery entrance. Robert and Alfred crouched between crates of eggs and milk, the hoods of their cloaks pulled up to hide their faces. The kitchen servants who came to collect the crates took them for nothing more suspicious than a pair of hirelings.

The cart brought them to the bottom of Gracegarden Hill, where a carriage was waiting to take them to the Merchant District. Robert had to admire Kemp’s choreography. More and more he seemed to Robert like the secret ruler of the city.

The Thorn after midnight was a different world. It was still a hive of activity, but of a more serious and focused sort. Robert saw a few faces familiar from his last visit: a pale man with an earring, a handful of University boys, the tommy and her pretty shopgirl. Others had the stiff military bearing of soldiers. A few were sandy-haired and blue-eyed, their coloring marking them as men of Guye. Robert hadn’t realized how much Northerners looked like barbarians. Then again, Guye had been barbarian plundering ground for years before Roland invaded the Territories; no doubt their great-grandmothers had been plundered, too.

When Robert and Alfred entered, the room’s attention flickered to them before turning back to the business of insurrection. The coffee cauldron was bubbling in the hearth, tended not by Madam Karga but Elif. She poured herself a cup before coming around the bar to meet them.

“He’s alive,” she said without preamble.

For a moment, Robert didn’t understand. Of course Asher was alive; why wouldn’t he be? Then comprehension closed over him like a cold hand.

“What happened to him?” he demanded.

“Punter almost did him in,” said Alfred. Then, seeing Robert’s expression, he said defensively, “No point telling you ’til we got here. I knew you’d just make a fuss.”

Robert regretted not kicking Alfred harder.

“Has he been seen by a doctor?”

Elif nodded.

“Concussion, broken cheekbone, ruptured eardrum, dislocated shoulder, broken arm, torn rectum,” she counted off on her fingers. “The doctor stitched him up, treated what he could, and gave him something for the pain. He says the kid’s chances are good,” she said, in answer to the question on Robert’s face. “If he’s held on this long, he’s a hell of a fighter.”

Asher was a fighter. Robert had known that from the moment they met. Luca was so broken by slavery that his strength was like the water that ran beneath a desert, but Asher smoldered like a marsh fire. Robert knew why Luca loved him. He loved him too.

“I need to see him,” said Robert. “Is he here?”

“Upstairs. I’ll take you.”

She brought them to a private apartment, as elegant as it was spare. The hallway opened into a bedroom where Madam Karga was washing out bloodied bandage in a basin of water. Her beautiful eyes were sunk in deep circles. She wiped off her hands and met them at the door.

“He’s asleep,” she said. Her tone might have been admonishing if it wasn’t so exhausted. “Hours, that took. If you mean to wake him, I’ll drown you in the coffee pot.”

“I just want to see that he’s all right.”

Madam Karga pressed her lips together.

“He’s been brutalized,” she said in a voice that shook with fury. “That place Bartimaeus bought him from—in Torké, such wickedness is forbidden.” She glared at Robert. “But nothing is forbidden to the lords of Solas.”

“I hate the lords as much as you do,” said Robert tiredly. “Does Asher know where he is? Have you been able to speak to him at all?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Madam Karga’s mouth.

“Elif can tell you,” she said.

“He cursed us like a sailor when Kemp brought him in,” said Elif, rolling her eyes. “But then Mam spoke a little Torkén to him and he calmed down.”

“It’s his milk language,” Madam Karga explained. “His people are from Arak. Oh, yes, they all come to Lyonesse for a better life,” she added bitterly. “See what that gets them?”

Robert didn’t have the energy to debate the merits of immigration. He was saved from having to reply by movement from within the room. Asher, sitting up in bed. He blinked at Robert. His eyes were bright with pain, but clear. He seemed lucid.

“Where’s Luca?” he asked thickly.

Madam Karga rushed back into the room, clucking like a mother hen. When she laid her hand on Asher’s forehead, he jerked away, muttering something rude.

Robert couldn’t help but laugh.

“Fields of hell, you’ll never behave, will you?”

Asher grinned—small, trembling, but as wicked as ever.

“Not likely.”

Time passed strangely in the seray. Luca had been kept in windowless rooms and brothels for most of his life; he knew that it was important to learn the schedule fast so he wasn’t caught unprepared. Master Crawley found him asleep once, and the punishment had been terrible. (But that was good, Luca told himself; it was a lesson. He was always ready for his master after that.) At the Harlequin, service hours resembled what Luca thought a normal day must be like, only later and longer and with the hours marked by the men who came to fuck him.

But there was no pattern to when the King summoned him. It was obvious that Luca’s new master barely slept—and no wonder, with all the bliss he did. He must’ve been using heavily for years to even survive such a dose.

Luca didn’t know whether it was the bliss that made his master so fickle, so easily bored, or if it just amplified those traits. It was like being owned by a child—a child who fucked him, fisted him, made him take cock after cock and lick the floor clean afterward.

So it wasn’t really like being owned by a child at all.

Luca tried to find good things, things to be grateful for. The other boys in the seray were like phantoms, dead-eyed and silent, but sometimes Nahab sat beside Luca with a faraway look on his face and told him stories about Dir Mun Sayut. He’d been a shepherd there before his village was raided. He had eleven older sisters, and after his mother finally gave birth to a boy she made Nahab’s father sleep in the barn.

Luca asked what sheep ate (everything) and what their wool felt like (dry and oily at the same time) and whether they dreamed (Nahab thought they did). Luca didn’t ask what happened to Nahab’s sisters.

And then one day Nahab disappeared. It was as if he’d never existed at all. Luca didn’t ask what happened to him. He didn’t need to. Nahab had told him on the day they met. He’d gone home.

The food. That was another good thing. They were fed constantly, more meals than Luca had ever eaten in his life. Fresh fruit and vegetables and bread with real butter, and even meat sometimes. Nothing was ever spoiled or burnt or half-raw (because slaves were like sheep and would eat anything). There had been a time when Luca would’ve done anything a man wanted for meals like these. He’d done anything a man wanted for less, for scraps and crusts and food Master Trainer had pissed in. Luca should be thankful that his new keepers were so generous.

But he couldn’t keep food down. That was the only problem. He couldn’t keep food down and he was never hungry. In fact, the whole idea of eating had become somehow incomprehensible.

“His Majesty is not interested in fucking scarecrows,” said Aquila, pinching the skin over Luca’s exposed ribs. “If you think you can starve yourself to death, think again. Lose any more weight and I shall have you force-fed as unpleasantly as possible.”

But Luca wasn’t trying to starve himself. Or at least he didn’t think he was. It was just that all the parts of his body felt disconnected, jumbled up. When he saw himself in the mirror on the bedchamber ceiling, he couldn’t make sense of his reflection. It was like looking at the pieces of a shattered plate too broken to put back together.

The King broke a lot of plates. He threw his goblet and shouted to be entertained. He snapped the little finger of Luca’s left hand for no other reason than boredom. Then he made Luca dance until his legs couldn’t hold him up anymore. He was sure that the King would kill him when he collapsed, but he only laughed and had Luca sent back to the seray. Luca didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. His feelings were as fractured as the rest of him.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the seray when the King had him branded, because he could no longer tell hours from days, but it was after Nahab. (That was how he marked time now: before Nahab went home, and after.) The guards brought Luca to a room that smelled like burnt flesh and the animal odor of pain. A man in a leather apron was heating a branding iron in the fire. Its glowing end was shaped like the royal fleur-de-lis.

Luca remembered the first time he’d been branded. Master Trainer ordered the smith to leave him unbound as a final test of his obedience. When the iron seared into his back it felt cold, colder than the coldest ice. He never felt heat; only pain so deep and raw it crowded every sane thought from his mind except the order to _Be still, hole_.

And Luca had obeyed. Even as his skin was burned away, he held himself so perfectly, perfectly still.

(Funny; Luca hadn’t heard Master Trainer’s voice since Lord Argent brought him to the seray. Maybe there was only room in his head for one monster at a time.)

This time the guards tied him down. Luca was thankful. Without Master Trainer there to order him, he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep from moving.

A leather bit was shoved between his teeth. Luca assumed that meant he wasn’t allowed to make noise. For a moment when the iron pressed between his shoulder blades he thought he could manage it. Then the burn cut through him, and his scream rounded out a world made sharp-edged by pain.

The smith did the piercings after, when Luca was still limp and loose-limbed from shock. The Pig liked needles; the pinch and tug of metal through flesh was sickeningly familiar. Luca was almost able to ignore it.

But he couldn’t ignore the gold rings pushed through the holes. He watched a bead of blood roll down his chest as though it came from someone else.

“His Majesty only brands his favorites,” Aquila informed Luca as an attendant rubbed salve into the raw skin on his back. “Oh, wipe that pathetic expression off your face. This is a rare honor that the King has seen fit to give you.”

Aquila was right to reprimand him. He was being willful. His body didn’t belong to him; he had no right to object to anything his owner decided to do with it. Not even in his mind.

That night the King kept Luca on his knees for—hours? It felt like years. Years of being fucked into, fucked and fucked until his world was reduced to a single point of friction. The King clawed at Luca’s hips like he wanted to crawl inside of him.

And maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to hollow Luca out so completely that there was nothing left but his ruined skin.

“You’re mine,” the King hissed as he came. “My present. My whore.”

He smeared the last of his spend over the brand. Luca held on to the thin bright strand of consciousness until the King shoved him out of bed. Then he let go.

Luca was curled up on the floor watching a fly crawl across a gilded rafter when the guard came to fetch him.

“You,” he said shortly. “Come.”

Luca pushed himself to his feet. Detachedly, he noted that this guard was new. He had a young face, scrubbed pink; he wore his uniform like a boy playing dress-up.

Somehow Luca wasn’t surprised when the guard turned right instead of left, taking Luca down a passage that he knew led in the opposite direction of the King’s apartments. The floor sloped down and the ceiling sloped up. The walls changed from stone to brick. Luca thought they might be near the servant’s quarters—only there were no servants.

In fact, they hadn’t passed anyone in the passageway at all.

Luca thought of Lord Rafe. He had the power to redirect the palace traffic so that a guard (if he was a guard) could bring the King’s favorite to him without attracting any attention. And of course he knew that Luca could say nothing after. Who would believe the word of a barbarian pleasure slave over a member of the royal family?

Luca was very tired suddenly. Looking inside himself, he couldn’t find anything else to feel. Only exhaustion that settled deep in his bones and ached when he moved.

The guard stopped in front of a wide domed door. When he pushed it open, the sour stench of ale rolled out. Was Lord Rafe going to fuck Luca in a brewing cellar?

“You’ve got ten minutes,” said the guard.

He was nervous. Luca hadn’t noticed before.

The cellar was so dimly lit that when the door closed behind him Luca had the sensation of being sealed into a tomb. It took his eyes a moment to adjust.

There was movement in the corner; a figure detached itself from the wall. Luca was about to go to his knees when the man stepped into the light.

It was Robert.

Luca’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Two conflicting impulses warred in him: to throw himself at Robert and to turn and run before Robert could see his ruined body.

Then Robert reached for him and Luca was stumbling into his arms and throwing his arms around his neck and burying his face in Robert’s chest. He inhaled deeply, trying to commit the smell to memory. The King reeked of blood and bliss, but Robert’s scent was clean, crisp, like the white flesh of an apple. Luca felt wetness on his face and couldn’t tell if the tears were his or Robert’s.

Robert started to say something. Then he saw the rings in Luca’s nipples and stopped short.

Luca blurted, “Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t want—” at the same time Robert said, “You must hate me.”

“I could _never _hate you,” Luca said, right as Robert replied, “You have _nothing _to be sorry for!”

They stopped and looked at each other. In the dim light, Luca’s eyes were huge, otherworldly. He gazed at Robert as if he might disappear.

Robert touched Luca’s face. Luca flinched, a reflex; then he pressed into Robert’s hand, seeking desperately for contact. Robert pulled him close, careful not to put pressure on the hurt places. He tried not to think about what Ademar had done to leave Luca so bruised.

“Argent is a monster,” Robert said through clenched teeth.

Luca shook his head against Robert’s chest.

“He wanted to protect you.”

Under any other circumstances, the idea that Robert needed to be protected from Luca—Luca, so slight it was like holding a ghost—would have been comically absurd. But there was nothing funny about the brand burned into his back, the piercings in his nipples, the emptiness in his face. He looked like a survivor of war.

Abruptly, Robert remembered Asher. Gods, Luca must still think his friend was at the Harlequin.

“Luca, I have to tell you. Asher—”

“He’s dead,” said Luca.

His voice was void of emotion. It was like the words held no meaning.

“No, sweetheart. He’s alive.”

“Alive?” Luca whispered. “How?”

“Do you remember my friend Hugo? The idiot with the pamphlet?”

Luca nodded.

“I’ve made a deal with the people he works for. They want someone inside Argent’s household, someone with access to the lords. And I want you.” He ran his thumb over Luca’s cheek. “But they can’t give you to me yet. The King—well. So I asked for this meeting. And for Asher. For his freedom.”

“He’s free?”

Gods, the broken note in Luca’s voice. As if he wanted sp desperately to believe Robert but couldn’t let himself.

“Free and healing fast,” said Robert. “He’s staying with a Torkén woman. A friend. I think she wants to adopt him.”

For a moment, Robert thought Luca was going to smile. Then his eyes shadowed over. He looked away.

“I hope she does. His family will sell him again if they can. His father—” Luca broke off. “Please, Robert, don’t let him go back.”

“I won’t, love. I’ll take care of him. As much as he’ll let me, anyway.” 

Luca was trembling, with relief or exhaustion Robert didn’t know. He wrapped his arms around himself. Somehow the gesture made him seem even more insubstantial, as if he would vanish into air if he let go. When he spoke, his soft voice had no expression at all.

“You should forget about me. The deal you made—I’m not worth it.”

“Luca, what are you saying? Of course you’re worth it.”

Luca was shaking his head.

“You don’t understand. Nobody wins against the King. He’s like a god. Like Melchior. He’ll kill you and it won’t be fast. You don’t know, Robert—you haven’t seen how slow he can make it. He’ll kill you for hours, for _days, _he’ll—he’ll—”

Luca was beginning to hyperventilate.

“You’ll beg for death,” he said. “They always beg.”

Robert wrapped his hands around Luca’s arms and shook him—just once, as lightly as he could. Just to bring him back.

“Breathe,” he said, inflecting his voice with a note of command.

Luca obeyed—a reflex, Robert knew, one as deeply ingrained as flinching when Robert touched him. Fields of hell, he hated the power he had over Luca. He hated using it like this.

“Listen to me,” said Robert, trying to keep his tone even. “The people I work for, they’re powerful. They have eyes and ears everywhere, even here in the palace. And they’re gaining influence every day. It’s only a matter of time before—”

He broke off. Luca wasn’t listening. He was staring at some point in the distance, no doubt seeing horrors that Robert couldn’t begin to imagine. He had gotten so thin since they’d seen each other last. Shadows pooled in the hollows of his body. Like parts of him were already disappearing.

“They’re not feeding you,” Robert said.

“No, they feed us all the time—real food, too, like free people eat. I’m just—” Luca’s shrug looked more like a wince. “Not hungry.”

It struck Robert then that Luca was fading away. He was letting himself fade away.

“Luca, please believe me, I’m doing everything I can to get you out of here.”

Robert could hear the desperation in his voice. Luca heard it, too. He touched the hand still clutched around his arm.

“I know,” Luca said. “Just—just don’t die. Please don’t die, Robert, promise me.”

“I promise. I’m no good to you dead, am I?”

It was meant as a joke, but Luca looked at him with wrenching seriousness. This time when Robert brushed his cheek he didn’t flinch.

“If I’m going to stay alive, then I need you to look after yourself,” said Robert.

Luca seemed to understand.

“You need me to stay alive, too,” he said.

“Yes. More than anything.”

Luca nodded. He looked as though he was turning something over in his mind. Then he said, “Make it an order.”

“_What?_”

“Please,” Luca whispered.

Robert gave Luca a long look. There was a mark on his neck, red fading into maroon. A perfect imprint of the King’s teeth. His arms were crossed over his chest—to hide the piercings, Robert realized. Gods, how must it feel to carry reminders of torture on your body? To know that there was no end in sight?

“I order you to keep yourself alive,” said Robert.

Luca closed his eyes. When he opened them, they burned with new resolve.

“Thank you.” He hesitated, then said softly, “When I dream, it’s always about you. Always the same dream.”

“What am I doing in the dream?”

Luca tilted his face up.

“You’re kissing me.”

Robert bent down and took Luca’s mouth, slowly and sweetly. He felt Luca’s breath catch. Color flooded back into his cheeks. It was like he was coming alive again.

“Please don’t give up on me,” Robert murmured.

“Never, Robert,” said Luca fiercely. “I’ll wait for you always. Forever and a day.”

Their lips met again. Robert pulled Luca to him, pressing their bodies together. Luca reached up and tangled his fingers in Robert’s hair. They kissed until Robert forgot where he ended and Luca began.

“Time’s up.”

Robert felt as though a harsh light had roused him from sleep. The guard stood in the doorway, rapping his fingers on the haft of his sword.

“Can’t you give us a little more time?” said Robert, his voice rough with tears he wouldn’t—couldn’t—let fall.

The guard shook his head.

“They notice he’s missing, we’re all worse than dead.”

Luca’s fingers tightened on Robert’s arm. His breath was coming quick and shallow, like he couldn’t fill his lungs. Robert had the wild urge to knock the guard down, take his sword, and see how far they made it before they were caught.

Instead he took Luca’s face in his hands, trying to commit every detail to memory.

“I’ll come for you as soon as I can,” Robert said.

Luca nodded, arching into his touch. Then, as if he couldn’t stop himself, he whispered, “Don’t forget me?”

Robert kissed him, brief and fierce.

“As if I could.”

Luca followed the guard through the passageway like a sleeper emerging from a dream. He was so distracted that he almost didn’t notice that the guard was taking him through the servant’s quarters in the opposite direction of the seray.

This was the oldest part of the palace, inside the great sheer wall that faced the sea. If Luca listened, he could almost convince himself that he heard the crashing of waves against stone.

The guard opened a door that led into the main hallway and beckoned Luca through. The hall was narrow, high-ceilinged, lit dimly by flickering lamps. The walls were lined with dour paintings of men in old-fashioned clothing. Their eyes seemed to follow Luca as he tiptoed behind the guard, their expressions distinctly unwelcoming.

They arrived at the door at the end of the passageway. There was a brass plaque on the wall; Luca squinted to read it. He made out the words _Royal Astronomer _engraved in faded letters.

The guard’s knock was met with a muffled call of “Enter!” The guard opened the door and pushed Luca inside.

The room was nothing like what Luca expected. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing warm light around an office in a state of cheerful disarray. There were papers piled on every available surface. The walls were lined with bookshelves overspilling with leatherbound volumes, their spines so cracked that the gilt letters were flaking off. A stuffed monster hung from the ceiling. It had a craggy fanged beak and a doleful expression.

“_Crocodilos crocodili. _A rather shabby example of the species, the poor fellow. I rescued him from an apothecary’s shop in Enkaare.”

This was said by a bland-looking man sitting behind a desk that was, like everything else in the room, heaped high with books, papers, and mechanical instruments. He had a pen tucked behind his ear. The nib was dripping purple ink onto his collar.

Luca was so surprised that it was a full moment before he remembered to go to his knees.

“Oh, no, you needn’t bother,” said the man, waving his hand. “Please, stand. Or have a seat, if you like.”

He pointed at a swaybacked armchair in front of the desk. Even if it wasn’t for the stack of almanacs already occupying the chair, Luca knew better than to sit; slaves weren’t allowed to use furniture. Instead he stood, automatically assuming the usual pose: head deferentially lowered, arms folded behind his back.

Luca heard the man sigh. He pushed himself up and hobbled over. From the corner of his eye, Luca saw that one of the man’s feet was badly twisted at the ankle joint. (A girl had been born like that in Ost, he remembered; when the overseers found out, they threw her into the sea.)

“My name is Bartimaeus Kemp,” said the man. His voice made Luca think of sweet black tea. “Can you look at me, please?”

Luca hesitated. Was this a trick, like the invitation to sit had clearly been? Mr. Kemp might not be a lord, but he must have power in the palace; he’d had Luca brought here, after all. Perhaps this was a test of his obedience.

But Luca couldn’t disobey an order, even one that violated protocol. Reluctantly, bracing himself for the blow that was sure to fall, he forced himself to raise his eyes.

He was met with the sight of a perfectly ordinary face. Mr. Kemp smiled encouragingly. The skin around his mouth was deeply lined; his small eyes gleamed with intelligence.

“There we are. How strange it is to meet at last! I rarely make contact with my assets directly, you know. Far too risky. My mentor taught me that.” He smiled. “She would have liked your Robert, I think.”

Luca’s breath caught. _Your Robert. _What did Mr. Kemp mean by that? What did he know?

“Would you like some coffee?” Mr. Kemp called over his shoulder, hobbling to the hearth.

There was a small cauldron bubbling over the fire. Its contents perfumed the apartment with the scent of unfamiliar spices. Mr. Kemp poured a ladleful into a cup for himself, then turned to Luca expectantly.

Luca dropped his eyes. This must be test after all. He didn’t have permission to speak, but Mr. Kemp was trying to trick him into replying.

There was a long pause. Mr. Kemp cleared his throat.

“Can you go to my desk, please? You’ll find a green folder amidst all the rubbish.”

Luca obeyed. He found the green folder easily. Mr. Kemp must have been going through it before he arrived.

“Open it,” said Mr. Kemp.

Luca did so. He unfocused his vision, resisting the temptation to read the pages within. If Mr. Kemp saw Luca’s eyes flicking back and forth over the lines of print, he would have him punished for prying into a free man’s affairs.

Mr. Kemp came around the other side of the desk. When he saw Luca staring pointedly at nothing, he said, with a hint of impatience, “Read the first page.”

It was a copy of a ship’s manifest, dated nine years ago. A cargo list. Between crates of munitions and barrels of fish was an entry for one (1) barbarian, aged approx. 9 years, the possession of Sergeant Major John Collins, latterly the Commissioner of the Barbarian Territories.

“Keep going,” said Mr. Kemp.

Luca turned through the pages. Receipts of sale; auction house records. An invitation in gold ink on cream-colored parchment to a private auction featuring pleasure slaves from the best training house in Paradiso. Another receipt. This time the price was astronomical.

Luca had never thought about the amount of money that had changed hands over him. The amount that men were willing to pay for his worthless, used-up body. Lady, what did they see in him? What did Robert? Luca’s whole life was in this folder, and all it amounted to was a record of the men who’d passed through him.

At the back of the folder, Luca found a sheaf of letters written in Bagoas’s elegant hand. As he read, he recognized Master Boq’s voice, equal parts sniveling and smug. How strange to think that Luca had ever thought his master kind. Robert had shown him true kindness, kindness that asked for nothing in return. Luca had tried so hard to love his master, but he knew now that there had been nothing in him to love.

“Of course, I destroyed most of my communications with your owner,” said Mr. Kemp. “Former owner, I should say. It was my mentor who taught me the value of brothel-keepers. Gregori Boq proved remarkably useful—or rather, his slaves did. The Golden Bird in particular.”

Luca put the letters down. He knew what they contained. All the lies Luca had told Master Boq about Robert. That whole time it had been Mr. Kemp they had been lying to, and it seemed that he knew everything anyway.

What had it all been for, in the end? What was the point? Luca wished Mr. Kemp would let him go back to the seray. He wanted so much to close his eyes and replay the memory of Robert kissing him until it was time to go back to the King.

But of course Mr. Kemp had brought Luca here for a reason. He would expect to be paid for letting Luca see Robert. Luca didn’t know why Mr. Kemp thought all these preliminaries were necessary. Mr. Kemp clearly knew everything about him. He knew that Luca would spread on command like the well-trained hole he was.

Luca realized that Mr. Kemp was regarding him with an expression of barely-contained exasperation.

“Do you know, until this meeting I rather prided myself on my ability to read people, but I can’t tell whether you’ve understood a single word I’ve said.”

The irritation in his voice made Luca flinch. If he angered Mr. Kemp, he wouldn’t be allowed to see Robert again.

Summoning all his boldness, Luca said, “Please, sir, you haven’t given your slave permission to speak.”

Mr. Kemp smacked his forehead.

“Of course! Forgive me. By all means, speak as much as you like. And you needn’t use formal address. This meeting is off the books, as I’m sure you’ve surmised.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kemp picked up the folder and took out Master Boq’s letters.

“Boq’s reports gave me the impression that you have an unusually sharp mind,” he said doubtfully.

Luca had obviously given him reason to revisit that assessment. It seemed that Mr. Kemp was expecting him to reply, but Luca hadn’t been asked a direct question. There was nothing for him to say.

Mr. Kemp sighed.

“I’m going to give you a numerical sequence,” he said. “At some point during this meeting, I’ll ask you to recite it back to me. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Kemp looked as if he doubted it. Still, he rattled off a string of numbers. Luca committed them to memory.

“Did you happen to notice how many paintings there were in the hallway?”

“Yes, sir.” Then, since Mr. Kemp seemed to be expecting him to continue, he said, “There were twenty-three, sir.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Kemp, with a note of surprise. “The third painting from the door, on the left. Describe it.”

“Yes, sir. There’s a man sitting in a chair. A priest. He’s wearing a silver chain of office and a black velvet capotain. In his left hand he holds a book of verse, and with his right he points to a globe.”

“What country is he indicating on the globe?”

“No country, sir. He points to the sea between Solas and Ermin.”

“And what were those numbers I gave you earlier?”

Luca recited the numbers back to him.

“Can you recite them backwards?”

Luca reversed the order. This didn’t seem like a particularly difficult test. Mr. Kemp wasn’t even hurting Luca to distract him from the right answer. When Master Trainer used to play these games, he would slide pins under Luca’s fingernails first.

“Very good,” said Mr. Kemp. He seemed pleased. “Now, each of the numbers I’ve just given you has an analogue in the Solasan alphabet. The number 1 would equate to the letter A, for example. Can you translate the numbers into their alphabetical equivalents?”

“Yes, sir. May I ask a question, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, sir. Would you like me to translate the numbers forwards or backwards?”

“Forwards,” said Mr. Kemp, smiling. “Then reverse the order.”

Luca obeyed. This was the most fun he’d had in months.

“Well done,” said Mr. Kemp once Luca was finished. “Do you know what an anagram is?”

Luca nodded. He and Robert used to pass each other scrambled-up messages all the time.

“Rearranged, the letters I’ve just given you spell treason,” said Mr. Kemp. “Can you find the message?”

An anagram with a riddle key? Luca was enjoying himself far too much. He closed his eyes and pictured the letters. There weren’t many; he saw the answer almost at once.

“_Long live Kenever_,” said Luca. “Is that the message, sir?”

Mr. Kemp clapped his hands together, beaming.

“It is indeed. You’ve just demonstrated a rare set of skills. Rare for anyone, never mind a barbarian pleasure slave.”

Luca looked at Mr. Kemp to see if he was joking, but there was no mockery in his expression.

“I thought everyone could do that, sir,” he said cautiously, anticipating a trick.

“If they could, my work would be far easier. Or perhaps infinitely more difficult.”

Mr. Kemp dropped the folder on the desk. He picked up one of the letters Master Boq had written him. The parchment was thin; Luca could read through it. He saw Robert’s name.

“I’m sure by now you know that it was I who arranged your meeting with Robert Argent,” said Mr. Kemp.

Luca dropped his eyes. Of course; he should have known. The games were just a way for Mr. Kemp to make him drop his guard. Luca wondered whether he should go to his knees now, or if he should wait for Mr. Kemp to direct him there.

“Robert appears to be very much in love with you,” said Mr. Kemp. “Do you return his feelings?”

Luca felt as though icewater had been thrown at his face. This had to be a trick, and a cruel one. Mr. Kemp was using Luca to get to Robert, just like Master Boq had. He never should have let his guard down. Not even for a moment. That was how the wolves got in.

Luca widened his eyes, adopting his most empty-headed expression.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

“Please,” said Mr. Kemp, holding up a hand. “You do a very good impression of vapid beauty, but I’ve seen too much of your intelligence to be convinced.”

So the games had been a trap. Luca dug his fingernails into his palms, furious with himself. _Never let the wolves catch you thinking. _That’s what his father used to say. Only Luca could be stupid enough to convince a wolf he wasn’t stupid.

“What a slave feels doesn’t matter, sir,” he said, careful to keep his voice dull, his face vacant.

“That has the ring of a lesson to it,” said Kemp quietly.

Luca didn’t say anything. He never should’ve started talking in the first place.

Kemp sighed.

“Training houses are famously guarded about their methods. For good reason, one assumes. I suppose it would be a miracle if you had any personality left at all.”

He gazed at Luca with penetrating intensity, as if he was trying to see through his skin and into the beating parts of him beneath. Luca had to resist the urge to turn away. Men never looked at him like this. Like there was something beyond his body that was worth seeing.

“But no,” Mr. Kemp said quietly. “Even now, I see the spark of something unbroken in you.”

Luca dug his teeth into his lip. Mr. Kemp was wrong. There was nothing whole left in him. He’d been broken years ago. Robert put the pieces back together, but Luca could already feel himself beginning to crack along the seams.

“As the Golden Bird of the Harlequin, you were one of my most valuable assets,” Mr. Kemp continued. “As Ademar’s favorite, you’re even better-positioned to serve our aims. But it will be perilous work. To other assets I can promise at least some degree of protection, but you…well, you know what sort of master you serve.”

Luca didn’t miss the way Mr. Kemp’s mouth tightened at the corners. He must hate the King as much as Robert. Funny how much free men could despise someone who’d never whipped them, never held them down, never thrust a sword between their ribs. They played out all their battles without ever once touching each other. So clean, these men of Solas. As clean as the King’s bedchamber floor.

“Do you understand what I’m asking of you?” asked Kemp, the exasperation creeping back into his voice.

“Yes, sir,” said Luca dully. “You want me to inform on His Majesty the way I did my clients at the Harlequin.”

“That’s right. And based on the skills you just demonstrated, I’ll have other work for you as well. You have access to places where no other asset can go—the King’s bedroom, of course, but also his offices, his table, the Star Chamber. How long did it take you to learn the Solasan alphabet?”

“A week, sir.”

Robert had been so patient with him. He would squeeze Luca’s hand every time he got a letter right. Luca could feel the ghost of that touch now, like the warmth of sun in his skin long after the light had faded.

“I’ll need you to learn a new alphabet even more quickly than that,” said Mr. Kemp. “An alphabet of symbols. The symbols will have a relationship to Solasan letters, or clusters of letters. The exact nature of that relationship will change depending on the key, which I will teach you how to identify.” He smiled. “I expect you’ll be a quick study.”

Even though he knew that Mr. Kemp couldn’t be trusted, Luca felt a thrill of excitement. He was going to have _lessons. _Mr. Kemp was going to teach him a new way to read. Luca would be allowed to learn something that had nothing to do with being fucked_. _Whatever price he had to pay, it would be worth it.

“I’m tempted to begin tonight, but I can’t risk keeping you away from the seray for so long,” said Mr. Kemp. “The next time there’s a window, the guard will bring you here. You’ll make your reports to him.”

“Yes, sir.” Luca hesitated, then blurted out, “Is that all you want from me, sir?”

“Well, yes,” said Mr. Kemp, furrowing his brow. “What else did you think I—_Oh. _Oh, I see. My goodness. You’ve been expecting me to…ah, take liberties with you. Were you under the impression that I had you brought here for that purpose?”

Luca hesitated. Mr. Kemp was looking at him with something like pity, but that could be a trick, too. Sometimes Master Trainer pretended he wasn’t angry right before the worst punishments.

“You arranged for my lord and I to meet,” said Luca carefully. “I thought—that is, if it pleases you, sir, your slave would gladly repay you for the trouble.”

Mr. Kemp was still staring at him. He must want a demonstration. By rote, Luca let his body fall into a posture of invitation. He inflected his voice with the appropriate note of enticement.

“Your slave will do anything, sir. Whatever you desire.”

Luca expected that Mr. Kemp would let pretense fall and grab for him. Instead, he took a step back.

“My gods, you really are good,” said Mr. Kemp quietly. “Any other man in my position would no doubt find that offer very tempting. But I have no intention of using you in that way, now or in the future. I hope that sets your mind at rest.”

His tone was pacifying, as though Luca were a skittish animal he was trying to tame. Despite himself, Luca felt a rush of relief. Mr. Kemp would probably change his mind later, but at least he wasn’t going to fuck Luca tonight.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Kemp extended his hand. When Luca only stared at it, Mr. Kemp took his hand and shook it up and down.

Luca understood; he’d seen free men do this before. His owners liked to shake hands with the men they rented or sold him to. This meant that Luca and Mr. Kemp had a deal. Not like the deal Luca had with Sark, or even the deal he had with Robert. This was something new.

Luca felt a brief, wonderful lightness, like those moments with a man when he was able to leave his body. Whatever the King did to him tonight, Luca had his next meeting with Mr. Kemp to look forward to. He had the memory of Robert etched into a part of him that not even the King could touch.

_I order you to keep yourself alive_, Robert had said. And Luca would. He would show Robert that he could keep a promise, too.


End file.
